The Chevalier

  Following her are a detachment from the Preobrajenski Guards, handpicked from her favourite regiment, a mass of green leaves under her pink flower. Behind them, Katya and I are now tucked onto a small sleigh, pulled by a solitary horse. We are so low to the ground that I hear every hissing sound of the runnels on the soft snow and feel the slush thrown up into my face. The drips soon freeze.

  “Don’t you just love the snow!” squeals my young friend.

  “It certainly fulfils your quest for adventure,” I say, strait-laced and ever mindful of her expressed desires.

  “Oh, I do this with my uncle every year. But it’s still fun.”

  Our horse’s hooves slide on an icy patch close to a thicket and a low branch slashes hard across my head. It is some moments before I can recover. Bruised and dazed, I feel for cuts to my cheek. “I might call it by another name.”

  “Come on, Lia, don’t be such an old maid.”

  “My child, I pray that I shall live so long.” Fortunately, my skin is unbroken.

  The journey may be short by Russian standards, but I shudder from every jolt. I begin to believe that these sleighs are best on thicker snow, when they can ride more smoothly. Although the snow is falling fast, it mostly still lies thin on the ground. There is another unusual facet to our progress, I find: it is most strange to see faces rush past us at a level higher than our own. And it brings a mixed blessing: Katya clings to me as we are buffeted up and down the gentle slopes from Petersburg. I love her to be close, yet always fear discovery.

  We reach Tsarskoe Selo before the last of the daylight fades. My limbs have seldom endured such a battering, and when we halt, I am frozen into immobility. I allow young Katya to stretch me upright with a series of gradual movements. I feast my gaze upon the long white stone façade of the Catherine Palace, torches flaring in every niche, ready for our arrival. I turn away: in the dusk, I see we are on a mound, rising above gardens of many styles. Beneath the whitened layering I can just make out their different patterns, the formal and classical French, offset by the artfully informal landscape English. Together with the dark salt cellar of the Chinese Pagoda Tower, these varied shapes surround the glistening Palace. The Empress dismounts, with some help, and wanders over towards us.

  “It is sublime, Your Majesty,” I say.

  “Yes, I love the gardens,” she replies with a backward glance.

  “They’re very fine, of course, although I can’t make out the detail. I was referring to the Palace.”

  “Ah. Rastrelli again. Named for my mother,” says the Empress. “And that,” she adds, pointing to an obelisk, “is for the man who served me so well. Count Rumyantsev.”

  “And where is he?”

  “I’ll tell you the story some day, my sweet.”

  I conjecture he is a lover grown tired of the great burden.

  * * *

  After a simple eight-course supper, Elizabeth and I are idling near the fire. Katya stretches upon the hearthrug, staring into the flames. The Empress is drinking with rapacious abandon. Her face, now that she is well past her youth, soon reddens a little – it gives her an unpleasant aspect. I am awash with nervousness, almost unable to look on her. I revert to my customary occupation, and pretend to read, checking her mood from time to time in the mirror. She can, and will, destroy anyone in a moment.

  “Katya! Bedtime,” Elizabeth calls out, as though she were a mile distant.

  “But, Your Majesty…” Our would-be Princess kicks her stockinged feet in petulant dismay.

  The Empress is very quick to raise her hand. “Did you hear me?”

  Katya jumps up at once. “Good night, Your Majesty.” She blows me a kiss.

  The door shuts behind her. There is silence, only the crackling of the fire, amid the curious smell of a newly heated room, one that has been long deserted. Elizabeth finishes her drink, maybe her tenth of the night, and throws her glass down into the fireplace, smashing it into a thousand fragments. “Admit it. You were horrified at what I did today.”

  “She’s a silly creature, the Countess. Everyone says so,” I soothe her.

  Now the finger of the Tsarina points at me. “But you believe I should be more forgiving.”

  “I don’t tell you how to rule.”

  Elizabeth raises her voice as she advances across the floor. “But that’s precisely what you’re doing. All this philosophy.”

  “I didn’t know you were drawing any conclusions.” I jump to my feet. I feel as though I’ll have to run. I start to back away.

  “I’m not such a fool, you know.” Still she comes on towards me.

  My hands go up to protect myself. “I never said you were.” Too late.

  “But you’ve been playing me for one, my sweet.” Elizabeth looms over me, pushing me full-length onto a divan. “Do you seriously believe I don’t know you’re a man?”

  “What are you saying, Your Majesty?”

  She leans over me as I lie on the cushions. “I’ve seen through your disguise.” Her breath is hot and reeks of wine.

  My whole body is trembling. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Don’t say even one more word. Do you recall what I had in mind for you in the initiation room? You know I don’t mind being cruel if I think someone’s mocking me. It would give me enormous pleasure. So don’t toy with me any longer. Just tell me what you’re playing at.”

  “Your Majesty, I’m here to help you.”

  Her hand grips my throat. “You are here on false pretences.”

  “Am I not convincing as a woman?” I strive to push her hand away.

  “Oh, very much so, little petal. But you were also most convincing as a man.” Now her finger presses against my lip. “No girl could have done as much.”

  “I can hide nothing from you, Your Majesty.”

  She laughs, a sound as menacing to me as her previous fury. “Well, what are you going to do about it?”

  I push myself up on my elbows, and her strength gives a little. “What will you do?” Inch by inch I sit forward on the divan.

  “I could surprise you.” Another short laugh, but her threat is abating.

  “Perhaps. You are a ruler of infinite variety.”

  She stands, a touch unsteady, and walks to the table on the far side of the fire. A half-empty flagon of red wine awaits her. “You see what people think of me?”

  “With my own eyes. They worship you.”

  “But they also say I’m lazy and capricious.” She fills a new glass, drinks and spins her large form round to face me. “Don’t pretend you haven’t heard.”

  I leap again to my feet. “Aren’t you forgetting vain?”

  Elizabeth’s eyes flash momentary anger, yet my cool judgment that her mood is changing is correct. She laughs, more pleasantly this time. “There’s a reason for this. Lull them – then keep them guessing. That’s how to rule.”

  “Not the best recipe for freedom.” I hold her gaze.

  “Look. I understand what Voltaire and the rest are saying. But this is Russia.” She takes another large influx of wine. “Any show of weakness, and these curs would rid themselves of me.”

  “You know I won’t give up my teachings.”

  She comes back to the divan, sits at last and draws me to her; her hands lock together on the backs of my knees, causing me to buckle. “I don’t wish you to. That’s why I’m sparing you when probably I shouldn’t. I’m growing fond of you. But you must find your own freedom first. That means knowing who you really are. Begin tomorrow. For now, forget we’ve ever quarrelled – and give pleasure to me in your usual way.”

  Her strong hands press on my calves and ease me down upon the floor. She lies back along the couch, turns over and waits for me to go to work upon her neck.

  * * *

  It is a long night and a short stay. Katya is most upset with me because I do not join her in our room until late. The next day’s journey to Elizabeth’s palace at Peterhof is thus fraught for a different reason. I am luck
y that the silence between us on the sled is masked by heavy snow. Due to the snow, Elizabeth decrees we divert from our route to Oranienbaum, the country retreat of the Grand Duke and Duchess. As we draw near, the snowfall ceases and the sun appears. On a hill sparkles the Ducal Palace, decked out in cream, tinged with a light blue that reflects the sky. The extended front beams down on us as we approach.

  However, the actual welcome we receive is less warm. The Grand Duke Peter is striding up and down the broad courtyard, in front of a troop of his imported Holstein guard. He leaves off shouting at them for a moment to bellow at us: “What brings you here, aunt?” His face sets in an ugly scowl, his tone is guttural.

  “A social call, my dearest,” replies the Empress, summoning her brightest smile. “We are en passant, as they say.”

  “Well, I wish you wouldn’t. Interrupts my schedule, don’t you know?”

  “One night’s stay is all I ask.”

  “I suppose so, if you must. You’re the Tsarina. But it’s damned inconvenient.”

  Even the Empress is taken aback by such gracelessness. Our mood is sombre as we slink indoors.

  It is true that Katya is most pleased to see Catherine; she displays less delight at coming across her sister. Lisaveta is present ostensibly as the maid-in-waiting to Catherine, but I never see the two together. Instead, the rumbustious Lisaveta spends her whole time sleeping or drinking with Peter, emerging from his den at all hours with rumpled clothes and her haughty teeth protruding, as though she has been rewarded for an exhilarating ride with some fine lumps of sugar.

  Catherine, normally self-confident even when she is silent, drifts around tense and unhappy, her face taut. Not even Katya’s most playful promptings can rejuvenate her. Rumours of Saltykov’s banishment may well be true. Still, I am surprised when, after we have finished a joyless meal where Peter ignores us all, she approaches me under the dome of the quiet Japanese Pavilion.

  “We are preparing to return to Petersburg, and not a day too soon. But let me pass on a word of warning, Mademoiselle d’Éon.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Bestuchev and Hanbury Williams are planning to expel you.”

  Of course I have some inkling of their hostility. “How do you know?”

  “Count Poniatowski.” He is clearly hoping to gain her favour.

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Not a lot. Stay close as you can to the Empress.”

  Nor, when we can talk alone in our bedroom quarters, is Elizabeth better pleased. “To think I gave this Palace to the ungrateful oaf.”

  “Extraordinary behaviour!”

  “I don’t know what to do with him.”

  “His treatment of the Grand Duchess is most odd,” I say, as if we don’t all realise the cause.

  “What will become of Russia when I’m gone? He is not fit to reign alone and I sincerely doubt that they can rule together.”

  “Your Majesty is too gloomy.” I squeeze her hand in mine. “You will honour the country with many more enlightened years.” However, when she thinks I am asleep that night I see her retching, doubled up with agony, and I am not so sure.

  The next day, we depart for Peterhof. We ride past the Grand Duke drilling his Holstein contingent, this time on the parade ground in front of the ugly fortress he is building. Alongside us on her trotting stallion, Elizabeth sighs deeply at the desecration. Peter’s troops give us a cursory farewell salute.

  It is a short journey along the coast from the Ducal Palace, with the ships lying off Kronstadt on our left. To look down from these heights at chunks of ice already clogging the freezing sea is a new experience, one that I find soon palls. The giddiness the view brings on enfeebles me. Our sled, as I request, stays far from the edge. Katya and I are used to the buffeting by now – besides, the snow has grown deeper, more caressing. So it is not long before we see the Grand Palace on the cliffs above the Baltic, with mighty waterfalls tumbling down steps that bring us to the lower gardens by the sea. Elizabeth halts us so we can take in the view.

  “More Rastrelli?” I enquire.

  “Certainly,” Elizabeth replies.

  “You keep him busy.”

  “Why should he complain? It is a dream life for an architect. He has continual commissions, unlimited space and considerable funds.”

  “You don’t tell him the budget’s unlimited?”

  “Best he doesn’t think that way.”

  We admire the Cascades in all their frozen glory, before walking along the constructed channel that cuts the gardens on the shore in two. Our footsteps leave fresh traces in the virgin snow. With a smile, Elizabeth shows me how the light steps of Katya make two for every one of ours. A fresh breeze blows from the sea and, as every second passes, I can see the cares brought on at Oranienbaum leaving her mind. Mounting the grand outside stairs to enter the Great Palace, the Empress draws me aside. “Come into this grotto,” she says, beckoning Katya to follow us.

  The scene that greets us in the nook is like a still life by a great painter: Oudry, say. A glazed bowl decorated with motifs of chinoiserie lies on the table. Apples, pears and oranges spill over its sides in profusion, enticing us to eat.

  “Is that fruit fresh?” asks Katya.

  “Let Lia pass you one and you will see,” replies Elizabeth.

  I reach out for an apple and, as I do so, a jet of water splashes me all over, soaking my dress such that it clings in places to my skin. Needless to say, Katya finds this uproarious.

  So does the Empress. “One of my father’s favourite jokes – and it still works.” Her cackling laugh reverberates through the small cave.

  The water threatens to ruin my enhanced cleavage; as a consequence I am less amused. Once more, I am endangered. The Empress may say she will keep my secret, but Katya must not become aware. However, this foolish prank convulses them for so long that I am able to adjust myself unremarked.

  A few days of peace at the country retreat of her beloved father serve to improve the Empress’s temper. She allows me to spend more time with Katya, who is likewise mollified. Elizabeth takes us to visit the gallery of beauties, where she shows me, with a wicked grin, the place that she’ll reserve for me, and promises Katya that she can join me on the walls when she grows into womanhood. We return, a happier trio, through ever deepening snows to St Petersburg and the makeshift Winter Palace. I know that I will have to start moving fast.

  * * *

  That night Katya takes herself to bed of her own accord during my reading, an extract from The Spirit of the Laws. We are all tired from our travels yet I cannot allow myself to rest. It could be the crux of my mission. I lower my voice to lull the Empress to slumber: a short while on, I close the book. Elizabeth stirs herself, preparing for a lazy bout of kneading at my hands. She reaches out to embrace me but for once I back away.

  “A moment, Your Majesty. The reading’s not finished.”

  “You’ve shut your book.”

  “Because my task is over. It’s your turn to read.”

  I press a tiny catch at the back of the book: the cover slides off to reveal a secret compartment. Inside is a document, which I pass to Elizabeth.

  Assuming nonchalance, she examines the title. “An informal diplomatic proposal?”

  “For an alliance. From Louis.”

  “So you’ve deceived me twice.” Her huge bright eyes, now cold, search mine.

  “I think you’re the only one I haven’t deceived.”

  Elizabeth holds my gaze a moment more, then scans the paper. “It seems to be suggesting a pact against Prussia.”

  “And England. Austria’s already signed.”

  “Why should I?” And yet the restless flicking through the pages betrays her interest.

  “England’s no friend to you. Think about the warlike Frederick and his aims. Prussia – not Austria – will be your biggest enemy. France is now your natural ally.”

  She shrugs. “You say that, but you’re too late. My ministers an
d I are about to sign this Treaty with the English.”

  “You might get some funds from them – eventually – but you’ll get precious little else.” I jump from the bed and start to stride around the room. I’ve been rehearsing this in my head for many days. “The English don’t care about Russia. It’s Louis who wants to make a real pact with you. And he is offering you considerable advantages: funds and troops.” I lean over her and turn to the relevant part of the document.

  “How much support does this mean?” Her mind is now alert to prospects of national advantage. She’s quite forgotten her earlier intentions.

  “I cannot say for sure, but depend upon it, it will be persuasive.” I let the thought hang in the air. “If you agree in principle, a full embassy will return within six months, charged to negotiate.”

  “And you?”

  “Your Majesty, I’ve done my duty.”

  She takes my hand. “There’s a place for you here.”

  “I must honour my King’s service.”

  “Do you not owe me some service, too?”

  “With all my heart.” I squeeze her hand in mine.

  “Then stay with me.”

  “Think of it this way, Your Majesty. If I fail to follow through my mission for the King, just how reliable a subject and companion could I be for you? You would always have one fear at the back of your mind – that I could desert you, too.”

  A long, searching look from her big eyes. “Come back – or I’ll never forgive you.” She signs the paper with a steady hand.

  I fold it and hide it again in its secret compartment inside the volume of Montesquieu. “I never want to displease you.”

  She takes hold of me, and embraces me. “Then don’t. Remember I know everything.”

  I nod. “You’ll help me leave?”

  “My sweet young thing, my hands are tied. I cannot be seen to help you.”

  “But you are Tsarina, all-powerful!”