The Chevalier

  I lay down my pen, shake the scroll dry with my fingertips, hide it amid my effects and rise to go. One last dab with the rouge, one very last adjustment to my bosom and I’m almost ready to depart. Pushing aside my chair, I stand, close my eyes and take some long, deep breaths. Blinking them open without disturbing the kohl, I pause to study the reflection. Before me, I admire the woman that I most wanted to meet, that I most wanted to become. I linger on this paragon of female beauty for a few seconds – and turn to leave my chamber.

  * * *

  In the wooden Winter Palace two outrageously tall infantrymen, uniformed in green and white, guard ornate doors that lead to the imperial throne room. My first impressions are being proven correct: the country seems to be peopled by a superhuman race. I wait in the background as crowds of ambassadors, nobles, ladies-in-waiting, courtiers and other hangers-on surge towards the doors. I join them: the guards allow us to pass through. From deep within this throng, Katya catches sight of me and weaves her way over, laughing. She is changed from her riding garb, but strands of hair float loose in testament to her exertions. A few of my nerves are calmed as I feast on her friendly face. She takes my hand and leads me further into the makeshift throne room, half neoclassical, half a garish monument to Oriental splendour.

  Now my trepidation returns as Katya explains in a whisper the composition of the audience. To the left, the followers of the Chancellor, Bestuchev, are massed in a teeming horde. Bestuchev, whose broad brow tapers to an angular chin, is head of the pro-Prussian faction: he was not always so, but English gold is winning him round, she says. The crowd swarms around the bull-necked Prussian envoy, von Tirpitz, and the Ambassador from England, Sir Charles Hanbury Williams, well-fed, full-faced and clad in black. For the rest, their clothes are a riot of autumnal colours, deep browns and reds – they are coarse, loud, lively, appearing confident of their superiority.

  To the right, she points out, are the supporters of the Vice-Chancellor, her uncle Count Woronzov: representing the culturally pro-French party at Court, they’re outgunned numerically – if not in style. They’re swathed in light greens, mauves and whites – their conversation is more restrained, a sibilant burble, like a brook in spring.

  As we advance through the great hall, Katya draws me ever closer to her. At the same time, a path opens before us. Most of the men break off their repartee to assess the new beauty. There’s an unmistakeable stir in Court. I can feel a hot flush rising to my head, one I pray masked by my efforts at make-up. My hand flutters in an involuntary reflex towards my throat; the choker is still fixed in place.

  I must relax, listen and take things in. Katya is gabbling on: “In brief, once more. Those Prussian sympathisers over there – watch out. They are the enemy. The Chancellor hates France and dotes on simple virtues – and vices.”

  She points to the ageing nobleman. Bestuchev is wearing a brutal, carnivorous expression: his mouth slips open, showing stumps of rotting teeth. I should not like to fall within his power.

  “Next to him, the Black Fox, the English Ambassador, has his ear,” Katya continues.

  Hanbury Williams is glancing obsessively to and fro. As if on cue, I see him whispering to Bestuchev, who nods vigorously.

  “And hard by the Black Fox is the young Polish man who acts as his secretary.”

  I tense at memories of Warsaw. Count Poniatowski, too, gives a little start as he notes my appearance. “He is soon to be Ambassador from Saxony, we hear. The large man he’s addressing, von Tirpitz, the Prussian delegate, is powerful but stupid…”

  Von Tirpitz jerks his head with oafish energy and laughs as a joke invades his mental faculties.

  “…although the Grand Duke Peter worships every link with his King, Frederick. And Peter will succeed as Tsar.”

  “Where’s Catherine?”

  Katya gives a little giggle. “She slipped away after our ride to be with Saltykov, her lover. You’ll see her in a moment.”

  “I thought Count Stanislaus was her admirer?”

  “He is. He’ll have to wait his turn.”

  “But what does Peter feel about this?” I cannot think he exhibits French sang-froid.

  “Did we not tell you? I was sure you’d guessed. My elder sister Lisaveta keeps him fully occupied.”

  I swallow hard – I am walking into an aristocratic seraglio. “And to our right?”

  “Elizabeth is my uncle’s mistress, when it pleases her. We survive.”

  “Your family seems well placed.”

  “Both within the Winter Palace and without. Fun, isn’t it? And there’s my Prince.” She points to a dark, handsome young officer, who I worry is oblivious to her presence, until he swivels and smiles briefly at her.

  “My congratulations.”

  “He’s so divine. But now, here we are.”

  Katya, blushing, takes me past D’Askov right up to Count Woronzov, polished and refined, with a long but well-proportioned face and a smooth complexion befitting a Russian dandy. The grey eyes of the kindly aesthete, a type so prevalent in France that he transports me back in spirit, light up with pleasure at my presence.

  “Uncle, here’s Mademoiselle D’Éon de Beaumont, from Paris. She carries with her a letter of introduction.”

  He bows with elaborate courtesy. “A long way for such a pretty thing. What brings you here?”

  “Work, sir.” I bob down in return. “I’m a governess.”

  Count Woronzov gently inclines an eyebrow, but before he can ask me more, there’s a mighty banging on a gong and the hubbub descends to a hush. The two most gargantuan guardsmen push their elbows into the hall, muskets aloft. An open path begins to clear.

  Empress Elizabeth enters by the great doors and starts to make her stately way through the parting crowd towards the throne. I can see immediately that reports of her voracity may be true; her fleshy face has that hint of voluptuous abandon, not entirely dissipated by her extraordinary, bright blue eyes. Alone among the Court she shuns a wig, but prefers to let her plentiful, light brown hair, tinged with auburn, fall down to the shoulders of her royal robes. The effect of majesty is enhanced by her figure. She is most tall for a woman, and her full bosom distracts one from the conclusion that she may be running a little to stout. In sum, she’s beautiful, even charismatic, but a cool appraisal can spot lines underneath the whitened face, evidence that she’s hovering on the edge of dangerous middle age. Following her at a respectful five paces come Catherine, pleasingly tousled (I observe her ears are still quite red) and Grand Duke Peter, younger than I expected, possessed of an air that oscillates between mad and sly. Without surprise, I spot that Stanislaus’s gaze leaves me to train itself on Catherine.

  Elizabeth smiles to left and right, careful to be even-handed. This must be the way of a female ruler in a land of patriarchy, I presume. Then she notices me in the company of her Vice-Chancellor and comes over towards us. Such informality does not happen in public at Versailles. I feel numbness pervade my fingertips.

  Woronzov bows low as she halts. “Your Majesty, may I have the honour to present…” he begins.

  “A new face? Who are you, pray?” Elizabeth permits the spectre of a smile, showing fine teeth.

  My voice quivers only slightly: “Mademoiselle D’Éon de Beaumont.” I curtsey, while she takes this in.

  “A French girl,” she asserts, but does not rush to order my banishment. “What brings you here?”

  “I was visiting relations in Poland, Your Majesty”

  “Warsaw’s hardly St Petersburg.”

  “Your city and your beauty are magnetic.”

  “I see you have a silver tongue.”

  “Your Majesty, I like to use it.”

  Those eyes, those lustrous eyes, they sparkle at my retort. “We must make sure your journey is not wasted. I want to hear what’s going on in France, so you are come most providentially. Today we end our fast celebrating the Dormition of the Mother of God. Dine with us tonight.”

  “I am all obe
dience.”

  My great satisfaction is enhanced when I observe the anguish of the anti-French party. Bestuchev, Hanbury Williams, von Tirpitz and their claque are in a ferment of confusion, tumbling over each other to hear and relay the awful news, their bodies cascading down into a huddle just as autumn leaves fall to the ground.

  Katya looks up to the Tsarina in supplication.

  “We shall expect your young friend with her uncle,” dazzles the Empress, and moves on.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Wooden Winter Palace

  Before the fast is broken, we must give thanks to God. Sentries fling open the doors of the vast hall; we set off in a loose procession towards the Cathedral of Peter and Paul. Katya tells me it nestles in the fortress on the far bank of the Neva. With Count Woronzov departing in attendance on the Empress, my young companion takes me by the hand. As the west wind starts to blow she halts our promenade along the shore. Over the whipped-up waters, a golden spire reaches way into the clear skies.

  Katya, eyes shining, turns to me. “Look, can you see what’s on the very top?”

  “I can’t quite make it out.”

  She points, shielding my eyes from the glare of the setting sun: I follow her finger. “There – a golden angel holding a cross. This angel protects the city. We have had fifty years untroubled since St Petersburg was founded; forty since the new cathedral was built; thirty since it was serviceable; twenty since it was consecrated.”

  “Your people choose their angels well.”

  “And so do I,” she giggles. She blows a kiss, her fingertips brushing my lips.

  Flanked by her tall troopers, Elizabeth leads the way across a pontoon bridge, which creaks and shifts dangerously above the swell. Even while guided by Katya, I have to take special care, my footwear having been chosen for display rather than comfort or ease of walking.

  Until we enter the fortress walls by the great gate, the main body of the cathedral lies hidden. We cross a broad square to the basilica, its muted yellow walls and tower starting to glint pink in the sun’s last rays. It reminds me of the plain churches I have seen on my journey to the Netherlands, simple, unadorned – I feel suddenly closer to home.

  Inside, I am transported once again. The sacred paintings, hangings, tapestries and stained windows offer a profusion of colour that awes me, used as I am to our relatively austere cathedrals. Despite my attempts to hang back, Katya insists we take our places near the front of the teeming congregation. I sense a host of pairs of eyes bore in upon my neck.

  “Don’t worry. You’re with us now,” my young friend whispers.

  Nine times the bells in the tower chime: the evening service begins. The chanting of the massed choirs, the acrid smoke of the incense, the knowledge that the tombs of the Great Tsar Peter and his niece, the last Tsarina Anna, lie beneath our feet; all combine to visit an overwhelming feeling of lassitude upon me. My head starts to reel; I grow giddy and faint, as though I too have been fasting for the last fortnight. The mesmeric intoning of the priest in his golden robes adds to my delirium. I am about to succumb and collapse – in the presence of the Empress and the whole of Russian high society.

  Katya nudges me. “You are swaying, Mademoiselle.”

  “I can’t help it. The smoke is engulfing me. And that voice – who is the celebrant?”

  “It’s the Bishop of Pskov. He’s Elizabeth’s favourite.”

  “But she seems to be falling asleep also.”

  “She’s in a trance. The Empress, you will find, is most devout.” She pinches my arm, hard. “You’re lucky this is not an all-night service. In her younger days, she felt the death of the Virgin Mary warranted it, I’m told.”

  For all the novelty and grandeur of the ceremony, it still seems to last that long.

  * * *

  The lofty guards outside the Empress’s antechamber scan Woronzov’s note and signal that I may enter. My hand shaking, I open the door which, fitted in haste, sticks halfway ajar, compelling me to push harder than I was planning. I fall across the threshold, heels clacking; inside, I find I am alone. Her temporary boudoir has been concocted in the French style, I am pleased to note. Gilded wood panels on the walls, lush paintings of nymphs and satyrs on the overdoors, and a lacquered screen of chinoiserie in the far corner conjure visions of the royal retiring rooms I glimpsed in Versailles.

  “Katya, where are you?” I cry out. “I’m here.” Nothing stirs.

  A dining table in the centre of the room is set for four. The table is crammed with meats, fishes, cheeses, fruits and wines. Plates of Chantilly and Vincennes porcelain lie virgin blue and white and gold on a green cloth trimmed with gold and silver filigree. In this moment of unexpected calm, I examine the silver cruets and tureens, the delicate ivory-handled cutlery, the diamond-studded goblets, and feel the solid worth of the English chairs. From a distance, I hear cracked bells ringing the midnight hour.

  Then I catch the sound of a familiar voice from near at hand: “Race you, uncle. Come on, Elizabeth Petrovna!”

  The doors from the bedroom burst apart and Elizabeth, Woronzov and little Katya tumble in, all shorn of their formal outer robes, now ripe for relaxation. Without acknowledging my presence, they hurl themselves upon their chairs. The fast is over. Indulging their hunger with no pretence of European manners, they snatch at food and guzzle wine – I am left like a drowsy horse at the starting gate. I sit down opposite my young would-be princess, and attempt to serve myself amid the carnage.

  “Please pardon us, Mademoiselle – celebrating the Dormition has rebuilt our appetites,” the Empress mumbles through a mouthful of cooked meats.

  I nod in apparent understanding, though I start slow and soon am picking ever more daintily at my own meagre plate of cheese.

  “You’ll find we’re able to manage conversation in a short while,” says Woronzov.

  Elizabeth throws aside a chicken leg – she has the eating habits of a man – and surveys him and the fruit with frank lust: “I so enjoy riling the Chancellor and his wretched followers. Did you see their faces when I invited you? Fit to choke. I might release poor Valcroissant just to watch them gag.”

  There is much laughter, not least from her. She pauses only to take a huge bite from a pear. Her eyes are large, blue, lustrous, flitting between us with the speed of a jaded debauchee seeking stimulation. Yet she is mercurial. Languor takes over in an instant; she settles back and fixes her gaze upon me. I feel uneasy at this manifestation of her monstrous appetite, but swallow my fears with a sip of rich Fleurie and smile in all politeness back at her.

  “That would truly be a day for rejoicing,” says Woronzov, flicking stray crumbs from his cuffs and removing his wig. “You know I’m partial to the French. But I must remind Your Majesty that you have recently signed an alliance with England.”

  “And, by implication, sided with Prussia. Yes, yes, Mikhail, I know all that.” The Empress leans over to stroke her favourite’s greying, still luxuriant hair. “You’re very good to me, as usual. It’s not that I don’t appreciate your advice. But please never forget – my word as Tsarina is absolute. If I wish to change my mind, I will. On all things.” She gives his locks a petulant tug.

  “Of course,” he concedes, wincing. “I will do my best to give you the ammunition for whatever you need.”

  “I can ask no more from a loyal subject.” She leaves off her manhandling, and leans back to examine him. “How pleased you must be with your niece and the fine taste she has.”

  I catch an anxious glance between Woronzov and Katya – does the Empress mean Katya? Or her sister? Surely Elizabeth is not aware of this other dalliance?

  “Fine taste, Your Majesty?” the favourite enquires.

  “Why, in her friends, naturally. This pretty little French girl here.”

  Woronzov laughs in relief. Katya picks up the thread, excited as only bright young girls can be. “And this is not my only skill – my horse beat Catherine’s by a good length yesterday.”

&
nbsp; “Did she take it well?”

  Katya does an impression of Catherine’s snort. “Livid. Her first ever loss.”

  “She’s working it out on her companion as we speak,” says Woronzov.

  More laughter rolls around the table. I know already she’s precocious, but I’m not sure Katya should be party to such bawdy talk. Even the most dissolute of my countrymen would cavil at corrupting a twelve-year-old, I like to think.

  “Your sister Lisaveta will have a hard time tonight, little Katya.” The secret is out. Elizabeth stares first at the niece and then the uncle, her eyes narrowing within a moment. “Remember, I know all. Your family has, shall we say, a foot in both camps, Mikhail.” The tapping of her own toes on the floor is slow, methodical.

  “I am powerless, I assure you. Lisaveta is at an age…” Woronzov’s voice fades away.

  The room is deathly quiet. From far out at sea I hear a cannon roar.

  “When she thinks she can play the courtesan with my adopted son and heir,” the Empress says, her enunciation full of menace, and precise.

  Her favourite can offer no reply.

  Katya breaks the uneasy silence. “Anyway he’ll take it out on his toy soldiers in the morning.”

  She rises and clicks her heels, imitating Prussian style. The tension snaps – all three Russians laugh with raucous abandon. Thus prompted, I join in. Elizabeth underlines once more she has the capacity of the all-powerful to change moods with the passing of a cloud across the sun. She turns her gaze back on me, becoming solicitous in a manner that makes me fear for my safety.

  “So where are you staying?”

  Now it is my turn to be at a loss: “Well, Your Majesty…”

  Woronzov saves me from my stumbling: “I’ve offered her apartments.”

  “We can’t have that. You’re still our stud. The chief one, anyway. She must come here to be with me.”