The Chevalier

  “Adieu, my sweet young thing. Don’t despair. Your time will soon come. My attention is now going to be fixed elsewhere.”

  She departs, neglecting to light a candle, and locks me into a darkness of double intensity. I feel that I can be assailed from all points of the compass. The thin skin on my wrists is burning, my legs and shoulders ache, and my arms are being pulled loose from their sockets.

  Using the blackness, I call on all my auditory powers but it is the imagination that rules me. I fancy I hear blows and cries from a distant cell, but I cannot be sure. I drift into unconsciousness until sharp pains drag me back to life.

  Many hours later, I hear the creak of an opening door, the stealthy tread of feet upon the tiles, and feel the soft breath of her approach. I brace myself for the imperial hand to rip the dress from my back, that vicious imperial hand that will strip away my undergarments, whereupon all will be revealed. I tense at thoughts of the whip’s hiss, the bite upon my flesh that may precede, and will assuredly succeed, such revelation. Her footsteps halt in front of me, and her fingers play about my parched lips.

  “You’re shivering, my little one. You want to know what’s happened; that’s natural. I put her to the question and she has answered me, after bravely withstanding so many blows that I lost count. She confesses she placed the bundle there as a charm, or so she says, to bind me forever to her in our hearts. I am convinced of her guilt, yet not of the motive. It is no matter. When she recovers from her wounds, she and her family will begin a new life in Siberia.” She kisses me upon my ear, my cheek, her tongue flickering out to wet the corners of my mouth. Her scent is heavy, tinged with the smell of wine. Still she does not release me.

  “So you know I was telling the truth.” Oh God, my legs are tired and aching.

  Her voice is forgiving, light with the cadence of justice upheld. “I am content with you.”

  I sigh in an amalgam of exhaustion and relief. “I am glad that Your Majesty’s mind is at last at ease.”

  “Do I detect a hint of censure?” She tugs at the back of my blindfold.

  “Oh no, please no, I didn’t mean…”

  “I thought not.” There’s a pause – then I feel her fingers undo the strips of cloth about my eyes. “But I am forgetting that you must be tired, my sweet. Let me help you down, give you some food and water and put you on my bed to rest.”

  * * *

  That evening, I take my customary place at Elizabeth’s card party, watching her play at faro, as though the afternoon’s events were but a dream. Only the recurrent shooting pains in my shoulders, arms and thighs remind me of how close I came to ruin. The Empress has, however, swiftly found a fetching substitute for the exiled Anya Dimitrievna: Natasha, Countess Lopukhina, the gorgeous if somewhat empty-headed wife of a handsome young courtier. She has been chatty and flirtatious, making herself popular in Petersburg in recent weeks, even taking the trouble to impress me. Her blond tresses are more fair than her predecessor’s, her face more pale, her lips more red, her eyes more deeply blue, yet it is clear she does not wish to be another disposable First Lady. Throughout the early games, her attempts to lose tactfully to Elizabeth show she must be aware of the strange circumstances that have brought her to prominence.

  As the Empress prefers to play the banker in her own rooms, it is not unusual for the rest of us to be the vanquished. No one can say that she actually cheats; but then no one would ever accuse her. Besides, she is apt to lavish gifts upon the losers so that they suffer little actual deprivation in the long run. I play seldom since I am not a true devotee of the game, but feel I must support it as rare evidence of French infiltration at the Court.

  “You will sit by me, my dear,” says the Empress, indicating a vacant chair. “You always bring good luck.”

  “Happy to be of service, Majesty.” I smile, although I would prefer to stay motionless in the shadows. Nevertheless, I manoeuvre myself into position with great care and watch the game unfold.

  A crisis comes upon us late in the night. Natasha wins with a three, and, flicking up the corner of her card, places her stake and consequent gains in a paroli on the next card. It is a seven and she wins again, causing the Empress to purse her lips. This is a minor inconvenience. All eyes are upon Natasha: biting her lip, she flicks the second corner, going for sept et le Va. Silence falls in the room.

  We wait. The Empress deals a Queen, and Natasha wins once again.

  Elizabeth turns to me: “Lia, I hold you responsible for this.”

  “Why so, Your Majesty?”

  “You know why.” The fingers of her left hand circle her right wrist, and she toys with it. Beneath the table cloth I massage the rope burns that still flare on my own wrists. Elizabeth shifts her focus once more onto Natasha.

  The young girl’s hands are trembling as she pushes up the third corner of her card. Quinze et la Va. Now Natasha might win fifteenfold, and even the rich, all-powerful Tsarina does not like such losses. Elizabeth unveils an ace, and Natasha’s luck continues. She flinches at her ill-starred win.

  “Did you ever know a beginner to have such fortune?” Elizabeth throws up her hands in frustration. None of us have, of course, or if so, we keep it to ourselves. “Do you wish to continue?”

  Natasha nods, turning up her card’s last corner. Trente et le Va.

  The Empress hisses sideways at me: “It’s time for you to change the course of my night, Mademoiselle.”

  I give a nervous little laugh, adjust my choker, and watch Elizabeth deal the card.

  It seems to take forever.

  It is a six, and the girl has won thirtyfold. There is a collective exhalation of breath. My status as a talisman is in doubt, yet Natasha must have even more to fear.

  The Empress’s eyes sweep down over her. “You may be very beautiful, my dear, but I am beginning to think your appointment ill-advised. Are you continuing?”

  The pale Natasha can hardly move. She emits a little squeak and, with mouselike fingers, tears the side of the card. She has no choice but to go on. Soitraitte et le Va. Sixty times her bet: so high the stakes are now. Another general sigh flutters around the room.

  “If you win, that shall be that tonight, dear Countess Lopukhina,” says the Empress, her scowl indicating how bad a move it would be. It would end the Countess’s short reign at Court: it might also rebound on me. “This bank cannot pay out any further.”

  Everyone is rigid with tension – Lopukhina gives an involuntary shudder – Elizabeth fidgets with the card. Natasha needs a five to break the Tsarina’s bank. The Empress reveals it with elaborate, agonising care.

  It is a four.

  A brief hurrah sounds out, followed by universal chatter. Relief is widespread, but Natasha is more cheered than anyone. I even spot a dash of colour on her cheek.

  * * *

  We retire to the bedroom, where Natasha, eager to assuage the tension she has caused, asks if she may perform the manual ministrations carried out by her predecessor. She works upon the neck, shoulders and torso of the Empress, and seems to please her. Katya glances at me as though to say my services will not be needed. She is mistaken. Commanded by Elizabeth, I open my next book:

  “Besides these concessions, Freiburg, Breisac, Kheil and Philipsburg were surrendered to the Empire. The King even submitted to destroy the fortresses of Strasbourg on the Rhine, Fort Louis, Traerbach and Mont-Royal; works on which the great Vauban had exhausted his art, and the King his treasury. Europe was surprised, and the French displeased, to see Louis XIV make peace as if he had been conquered. Harlai, Creci and Callieres, who signed this peace, durst not show themselves at Court or in the City. They were loaded with reproaches and derision, as if they had taken a single step without the orders of the Ministry. They were reproached by the Court with having betrayed the honour of the French nation; and afterwards they were applauded for having, by this treaty, prepared the way for the succession to the Spanish monarchy: but, in truth, they deserved neither the censure nor the praise.
”

  Reading as I am from Voltaire’s History Of Louis XIV, my audience displays marked differences of response. Slipping backward into the cushions, Elizabeth is listening with regal indolence to this unusual bedtime story. Released from her kneading, Natasha joins Katya and the two young maidservants, as all four stretch catlike beside the Empress on the massive bed. The handmaids are disinterested; Katya is alert; about Natasha I cannot yet be sure.

  Keenness ebbs outward from me, and takes up residence elsewhere. One of those spasms of energy that overtake Elizabeth from time to time runs through her. Hauling herself upright, now active and altered in mood, the Empress claps her hands. “Leave us. Not you, Lia.”

  There’s much sighing and groaning. Those four young cats were comfortable.

  “At once. I wish to discuss the moral of this story.”

  With some reluctance, Katya, Natasha and the maids leave the bedchamber. Katya looks back at me in longing, but I cannot respond. Tonight is a chance for me to start to sway the Empress, and I must be resolute in my mission. Young Katya will have to wait.

  I put down my book. “What does Your Highness want to know?”

  Elizabeth adjusts the cushions, and, satisfied, rubs her hands and fingers together in pensive deliberation. “Why did you choose that passage?”

  “No reason. I followed our usual method: I played the game of chance and opened the book at random.”

  “How convenient. It underlines the hold the French have over Germany.”

  “That is one premise the philosopher states. But it is for readers to draw their own conclusions.” Nevertheless, I realise she has been correct in drawing hers.

  “It also seems that diplomatic resolutions may be viewed in quite a different light at various times, depending on events.”

  “Yes, that is an axiom of history.”

  She opens her penetrating blue eyes upon me. “Apparently Voltaire also said that it is one of the superstitions of the human mind to have imagined that virginity could be a virtue?”

  I quiver with tension. “Certain learned men have passed the epigram around.”

  “Do you believe him? Is it just superstition to find chastity a virtue?”

  “I suspect he was being provocative.”

  There’s a pause. Elizabeth continues to stare into my eyes, breathing hard. “Indeed.” She pulls me by my hand towards her. I acquiesce. She gives me a lingering kiss.

  “No, don’t.” I squirm, attempt to move away.

  “You are most provoking. Will you not practise what you preach?”

  “It was Your Majesty who invoked the saying, not I.”

  “But he is your philosopher.”

  “Not mine, personally; I agree he’s from my land.”

  “Then submit.”

  “Let me give pleasure to you, Your Majesty. But please – don’t touch me.” My hands are grasping Elizabeth’s knees, ruffling her nightclothes.

  “Don’t I excite you?”

  “It’s not that.”

  Now my fingers are stroking Elizabeth’s bare flesh. She leaves off her protests, and sighs. “What then, my little one?”

  “I’ve promised to stay pure.”

  “And if I ordered you?”

  I shake my head and begin to work my way down, millimetre by millimetre, below her knees. “Of course I should obey you, but I beg you to respect my chastity.” I stroke her delicate, soft feet. “Please don’t put our attachment to such a test.”

  She sighs again, luxuriantly. “I’ll think about it. Carry on what you’re doing. Tomorrow I’ll take you on a tour of my favourite houses in the country.”

  “How far?”

  “No distance. We ride to Tsarskoe Selo and on to Peterhof.”

  * * *

  The next morning, weary from my endeavours, I oversleep and am hurrying down the corridor, armed with books, late for our departure. Turning a corner, I bump straight into Hanbury Williams, dressed in his customary black. Both of us are sent flying – with good fortune, I recover first, rise and clutch my fur cloak tight around me. Williams gets up with rather more circumspection – winded, I imagine – rubbing his large stomach, then his chin, my books scattered about him on the floor.

  “You’re pretty tough for a girl.” His French is good, his accent less commendable.

  “I beg your pardon, Sir Charles?”

  “No need to be coy. You understand all too well.”

  “Understand what exactly?”

  “The game out here. Their prison’s not for you, is it?” He laughs, the skin wrinkling on his fleshy cheeks. “Not like old Valcroissant.”

  “I’m a mere governess, not an ambassador.”

  A sniff. “If you’re just a governess, I’m King George the bloody Second.” He stoops to pick up one of the books that have spilled upon the floor, Montesquieu’s The Spirit of the Laws. I do not think he sees me freeze in anticipation of disaster before he snaps it shut. He grimaces at its cover and offers it back to me.

  “I do not take your meaning, sir.” I put the volume underneath my arm.

  “My dear Mademoiselle, the substance should be clear – we’re watching you.”

  Giving a swift curtsey, I dash on through the hall, the wooden floorboards bending under my feet, and out into the courtyard. In the lee of the provisional Winter Palace, under a covered walkway spurred by oaken pillars, I find Katya waiting to go on the Empress’s trek. Within moments we are joined by the two handmaidens and Natasha Lopukhina, whose ethereal pallor has returned after her baptism into the gambling activities at Court. The presence of so many human swans causes me to react in the accustomed way: I find I start to emulate the birds. On the surface I am calm, but the previous day’s narrow escapes from pain and pleasure still fill me with unease. Nevertheless, while quaking in panic inside, I greet the debonair Woronzov as he strolls over to join our party.

  “I did not know you were travelling with us, Count,” I say.

  “You’re right. I’m not,” Woronzov replies. “I want to wish my niece – and yourself – a pleasant voyage.”

  And to make sure your mistress is safely gone, I think.

  Elizabeth strides into the yard, clothed in a tight reddish-pink riding habit newly fashionable from England, matched with a lighter rosebud dress and black riding boots. There is a clash of colour with one of the fair swans. The assembly holds its commingled breath.

  Elizabeth’s lip twitches. I see her struggle for self-control. She loses, and rounds on Lopukhina. “You’re wearing pink.” She flicks her riding crop at Natasha’s bright dress and habit.

  “In your honour, Your Majesty.”

  “Liar – you’re plotting against me,” shouts the Empress, striking twice, hard.

  Natasha raises her arms to ward off the blows. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “I told you all not to wear pink again on our rides.” Elizabeth glares about her for confirmation of her diktat. The handmaidens and Katya nod in frantic agreement. She points her crop at the young Countess. “You’re a traitor.”

  “Your Majesty, I’m new in your circle. I had no idea…”

  “There can be no excuses. My strictures are well known. All penalties must be severe.”

  “No!” The Countess falls full-length upon the ground.

  “I won’t stand for rebellion.” Elizabeth signals to her guards. “Execute her.”

  “Might I have a word, Your Majesty?” Woronzov glides forward and, with a deferential hand, draws her aside. “You may recall you abolished the death penalty at your coronation.”

  “Did I?”

  “The nation rejoiced in praise.”

  “How annoying my leniency can be,” muses Elizabeth, already wearying of the scene. “Flog her. Fifty lashes – cut her tongue out if she screams.”

  Woronzov glances at the prostrate Lopukhina. “Are you sure about this, Your Majesty?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” the Empress snaps. “Now get them to carry out my orders immediately
, unless you want to have her punishment doubled. I had to thrash her mother-in-law for her vile conspiracy, and I won’t be less harsh on her.”

  Soldiers lift the sobbing Natasha and drag her to her fate, her pitiful pink shoes scuffing on the paved stones behind her. Rough hands pull her up a ladder onto a platform resembling a scaffold. I am appalled to see them strip her naked, despite her pleas, and tie her to a wooden frame used for recalcitrant troopers. The Empress snorts, mounts her horse – with some assistance, from a wooden block – and leads us towards the courtyard gate. We pass through, and away.

  The lashing begins, out of my sight, yet with the most fearful whistling and cracking sounds I ever heard. Until the next moment. A dreadful howl reverberates throughout the yard. I must confess to terror at this instant show of arbitrary and absolute power. If this is the custom, I am much relieved I did not hear the inquisition of Anya Dimitrievna. Still more so, that I did not receive it myself.

  Clattering off beneath grey skies, I can only hope that the troops are humane enough to ignore the second part of the Empress’s penalty. They do. The screams follow us with mounting velocity until we are gone out of earshot.

  * * *

  Grey turns to white. The first snows of the season are falling as our imperial entourage sweeps through the countryside. Elizabeth stays in the vanguard, her dress cascading like apple blossom upon her fine chestnut horse, urging it on with her crop like a farmer beating a tree. Around her, the horns blow as though we were racing to the hunt. Peasants emerge from their hovels to salute her divinity. She acknowledges them with natural grace.