The Chevalier

  “Their sentiments, as you call them, are universal. Every country would benefit from reviewing its history, principles and laws. And you are speaking French yourself, Chancellor.”

  “I have been a diplomat and must still, I fear, converse with them.”

  “So you surely have some notion of an ideal world?”

  “For what it’s worth, I am a patriot and a realist.” He bends down to pick up some of the scattered papers. “These are disordered thoughts, mere jottings. Have you really gleaned all you can from us? Maybe you’re not quite ready to depart?”

  “Sir, I told you, I had no such aim in view; however, the emergency in Burgundy requires me to attend as soon as possible.”

  There is a long delay, while he passes my papers from hand to hand, mumbling to himself in their incomprehensible tongue. At length he looks up at me. “In that case, my best wishes to your family. Is this all you have?”

  “All that I had time and room to pack.” I point to the papers. “Take what you must, but please spare my first editions.”

  The Chancellor shuffles through the papers one last time, shakes the books with great vigour, examines them carefully and throws them back into the case.

  “If I’d had my way, you’d be in jail. The Tsarina has been a persuasive and most powerful advocate for your freedom. Oh, and another thing. Do you know that you need a passport to leave the country?”

  “I was not aware of it, sir. Had I been so, I would have followed the custom most assiduously.”

  “Indeed.” Despite his scepticism, he fills out a passport for me and imprints his seal upon it.

  I incline my head. “Thank you.”

  “Under normal circumstances, you cannot quit our borders for two weeks after the publication of your departure in our journals. That cannot now be until tomorrow. So take your leisure moving southward – you may not pass Riga for a fortnight.”

  “I throw myself on your mercy, Chancellor. The need to be at my father’s side is pressing.” The guards begin to replace my cases in the coach.

  “Of course, I understand. But it is my responsibility to uphold our laws.” He thinks a moment. “However, I also have to weigh the fact that I believe your influence here is malign, most damaging to our interests. Each day you reside with our Empress enables you to drip your poison in her ear.”

  Better at least than his breath, I think. “I find you unjust, sir, but I will not argue with you.”

  He hands me the passport. “Supposing you have one, you can thank God – and Elizabeth – that you’re free to go.” I bow my head one last time and he turns away.

  The Empress’s carriage drives me through the city gates.

  * * *

  In my rush to leave St Petersburg, I have neglected to break my fast. In consequence, I’m already feeling severe hunger pangs when, after a long but uneventful ride, the coach draws up by the snow-encrusted inn at Caporya. There’s a single torch burning outside the wooden hostelry. A loose shutter on an upper floor is rattling in the wind, yet, this apart, everything seems quiet. The long winter night is already closing in. After looking around the courtyard and finding no sign of life, I get out of the carriage and walk slowly to the door, taking great care on the icy patches. The smell of overcooked meat, from what I suspect is a type of local stew, wafts through the air. It will suffice. I knock with some urgency.

  After what seems an age, the door opens: my first sight is the pleasing form and friendly face of Olga. A shock awaits me, and it hits home a moment later. In the corner of the parlour two contrasting, most repugnant figures are lounging over the remains of their dinner – Lord Douglas and Monin. They look up, smiling, as I stand transfixed. Sensing a conflict, Olga flits past their table into the kitchens.

  “What a pleasant surprise…” declares my Lord.

  It’s hard to find my voice. “You’ve returned from Prague?”

  “Yes, just got back. Fearfully difficult journey, eh, Monin?”

  “Most tiring, due to the weather, my Lord.” The little devil cackles.

  “Well, I’ll let you rest,” I say. “I think I should hurry on to France.”

  Lord Douglas rises to his feet. “We couldn’t live with ourselves.”

  “Something could easily happen.” Monin circles towards the door to cut off my retreat.

  “You’re very kind. But it’s fine. My arrangements, I mean.” I point through the window in the direction of my vehicle, unseen in the murk. “I’ve hired a coach and driver from the Tsarina.”

  Lord Douglas brushes this aside. “We’ll send them back to St Petersburg. Think of the expense. We won’t hear of it. Olga!” She slinks back in. “Mademoiselle will be staying here tonight, so prepare a room. We leave tomorrow.”

  There’s no way out for me from this. Maybe it is for the best. He will also provide an escort for me through the wastes of Northern Russia and Courland, through turbulent East Prussia and Poland, and across the tinderbox of the Holy Roman Empire. After all, it is what he was hired to do. I am just exchanging one danger for another. With great reluctance, I nod my assent.

  * * *

  An hour or so on, I am trying to digest what it is hard not to imagine as the leftovers of the earlier meal with little success. Leaving my guardian to finish his wine, I venture into the courtyard, towards the ladders that lead to the gallery. Olga gestures to me from the doorway as I am climbing with unsteady feet to my chamber. “You’ll be wanting to know what your friends were up to while you’ve been away, mistress?” She gives me a charming smile, only missing a single tooth as far as I can see.

  “I suppose I will. But, Olga, when did you learn our language?”

  “A girl has to occupy herself somehow.” She follows, hauls herself onto the balcony beside me and brushes down her smock.

  “You’ve been with my Lord?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Not Monin?”

  A little nod.

  “And can you tell me all?” I can only pity the poor girl.

  “I’ll want payment,” she says.

  “I’m afraid I’m rather low on trinkets.”

  “Come to my room at midnight. It’s the last on the left. You’ll think of something.”

  And I do. It is Olga’s first sight of the Empress, albeit in miniature.

  * * *

  Our prayers for an escort are soon answered at the inn. A flotilla of merchants is heading south for Riga, Mitau and Memel, twenty coaches altogether. Our carriage trundles amid them through the countryside towards the Russian border, jolting often enough upon the ice-bound roads to cause us great discomfort. I am already regretting sending the Tsarina’s superior coach back to St Petersburg.

  My Lord Douglas and I disport ourselves on opposite seats in the carriage, he pretending indolence, I protecting myself with my prim dark grey travelling coat and skirts, as we fence for information.

  “May I assume that this Count Woronzov finally returned?” he says.

  “Indeed he did. A very model of a gentleman.”

  “And he ensured you met Elizabeth?”

  “I was fortunate to be given the privilege, yes.”

  “So how was the Empress?”

  “She was… nice,” I reply, with a fine disregard for the truth. “My experience showed she is not always anti-French.”

  “And did she utilise your – ,” here he essays a little clearing of his throat, “ – talents?”

  “I performed some services as her lectrice.”

  “Is that a fact?” Scorn plays about his face. “What did you read to her?”

  “A few of the books I was carrying.”

  “Oh my God! She wasn’t interested in any of that radical rubbish?”

  “She didn’t say. I did not examine her upon the contents.”

  “But she didn’t stop you?”

  “No. She may have been too busy with the outbreak of disease in the Palace.”

  He blanches, shifts in his seat and taps his walking st
ick upon the carriage floor. “Did you gather any of her plans?” I think I’ve made my person safe a while.

  “Not really.” I look away from him to study some featureless countryside.

  “I mean, for instance, do you know which side Russia is likely to take in the coming struggle?”

  “It would be difficult to be sure.”

  “So what exactly have you been doing for the last few months?”

  “Just my duty.” I smile at him in an annoying sweet fashion. “How did yours go?”

  “What?”

  “In Prague.”

  “Oh, that.” He gives a little grunt. “Splendid, thank you.”

  “What did you have to do?”

  “Nothing much,” he says. “You know. Bits and pieces.”

  “You saw more mines? More building works?”

  His bushy eyebrows rise. “Plenty, I can assure you.”

  “Any exciting projects?”

  “None that spring to mind.”

  “Come across any old friends?”

  Lord Douglas pretends to think a moment. “Not as such.”

  “Well, I must say it all sounds fascinating.”

  He leans forward, as though fearing Monin on the roof is in the pay of Prussia. “Of course I can’t tell you about it. The matters are secret.”

  “Quite.”

  He folds his arms. I fiddle with my purse. We both turn from each other to gaze out of opposite windows. The only difference between us is I now have proof that he is lying, whereas I believe he just suspects that I am.

  * * *

  There is one matter on which we both agree. Six days together on the road to the border at Riga (where I am pleased to see Captain Orlov is off duty) exhausts my patience, and clearly ruins his. We desire to get back to France in the shortest possible time. So, for once in concert, we decide to leave the merchants’ caravan in Courland, bypass Memel, cut our path almost due south from Mitau towards Warsaw and forge into the eastern edge of Prussia, where it seems the snows have been less heavy.

  “You know, of course,” I say, “we run the risk of detection in a state likely to be an enemy of Russia – and of France. We should expect no mercy.”

  His face remains impassive. “I realise this. In military terms, I weighed the definite benefits and possible demerits upon the scales and found the balance, however small, to be in favour of our actions.”

  That’s a relief.

  Our shortened journey takes us through the Masurian Lakes. We calculate we shall be safer from observation in this part of Frederick’s kingdom than if we were to visit the populous Baltic ports, with their inquisitive customs officials. As we come near the town of Nikolaiken on a lakeside road one mid-afternoon, the carriage is passing through patches of snow beneath a straggling clump of trees. A cold, thin winter sun is glimmering on the grey surface of the lake. The stink of stagnant water from small pools nearby pervades the air. No human habitation is in sight. All around is quiet. Lulled by the sounds and views of so much slush and water, I fall asleep. I have been reading a summary of local folklore in our mother tongue, picked up with some surprise and delight at a small bookseller’s stall in a travelling market. My dreams are dark with visions of the martyr Bruno of Querfurt dying here long ago at the crude hands of marshmen.

  * * *

  There is a loud disturbance in my dream: two shrouded thumps, succeeded by two stifled cries. I waken from my sleep and find Lord Douglas stretched, inert, half-in and half-out of the carriage. Exercising great caution, I emerge from the coach’s other door. To my right, I see Monin lying motionless, curled up in the snow. Some sort of vagabond is shuffling towards me in a faded dark blue coat, complete with torn sash and stained white leggings. Another ruffian is perched upon the roof, grinning down at us, a cudgel in his hand. Deserters from His Majesty’s Prussian Army, without question.

  With ironic politeness, the vagabond sees fit to introduce himself: “The army of Frederick the Great at your service.” He removes his black tricorne hat, no doubt stolen from an officer, and bows.

  I smile at this odd creature, who must be the robber chief. “Did you say Frederick the Great?”

  The highwayman assumes a regal stance, feet splayed. “I did, my Lady.”

  “This is a fine surprise. I’d no idea you were so young and handsome.”

  “It’s being King of the Prussian Road as does it. Keeps me youthful and in good condition, you know.”

  Showing him exaggerated courtesy, I incline my head. “Certainly.”

  “Fitness is essential in our army.” His voice betrays a hint of rebuke.

  I look up. Through the windows, I spot a figure dressed in ragged military uniform limping towards the coach.

  The bandit chief gestures in grand style at his companions, as though I must be bound to be impressed with their motley attire. “May I introduce my generals? Herr Seydlitz…”

  Leering at me, the ruffian on the roof makes a rickety bow from the hip, his pointed infantryman’s hat tipping forward at an acute angle.

  “…and Herr Ziethen.”

  Rounding the coach at last, this even more dissolute musket-carrying highwayman appears, wearing a battered breastplate and pale yellow breeches, and gurns a toothless smile.

  “Charmed, I’m sure. Gentlemen, a very good day to you,” I say.

  The ersatz Frederick jerks his head at his associates. “We’re in luck, boys.” Smirking, they all shift in their places a trifle impatiently.

  “Is that right, gentlemen?” I refrain from moving, although the urge is strong.

  “Not had a female customer in weeks.” This wayside King is blunt.

  “So I suppose you’ll be wishing to take my jewels?”

  “You could say that.” There’s a good deal of sniggering.

  I stay them for a moment with my hand. “Just let me first see to my friend.” I lean down to turn the crumpled figure of Monin face up, and quickly draw his sword from the scabbard.

  “Silly girl. There’s no need to be killed before we ravish you.” The chief flourishes his own sword, but he is loose in his attack, thinking I must be devoid of skill. In his overconfidence, he offers me an opening almost at once and I am quick to run him through. He sinks to the ground.

  “I thought the King of Prussia was enlightened.” I twist the blade, and withdraw.

  Screaming hideously, the proto-Frederick expires at my feet in a mess of blood and innards, dark red spreading across the snow. I turn to fight the second rogue, who has been struggling to fix his bayonet tightly enough to do me damage.

  “Just you wait, bitch,” he growls. But he’s too slow.

  “His generals aren’t so smart either.”

  At the very moment he at last raises his weapon to lunge at me, but I dispatch him with a fierce slash to the neck. I have to move back sharply to ensure the spurting blood does not bespatter my dress. As I do this, out of the corner of my eye I spot the sham Seydlitz jumping down from the carriage roof. Just in time, I sway out of his path – he misses me by a fraction and hits the ground with a thud, uttering a winded moan. I am able to skewer him in the kidneys as he attempts to rise. His life soon ebbs away.

  Breathing hard from these exertions, I leave the sword still quivering in the villain’s flesh, before arranging myself in a picturesque pose, my coat about me, as if I too have been struck unconscious. Monin’s flat out, Lord Douglas’s hands dangling by the wheels. The only sound comes from the waters lapping on the lake shore, a gentle susurration ushering me back to sleep, a sleep that only I know I have earned.

  * * *

  Twilight is starting to fall when I am next aware of the world. Nearby I can hear Lord Douglas and Monin groaning their way back to life.

  “Monin!”

  “Here, my Lord.”

  “Sweet Jesus, my head aches.” Lord Douglas wails – I picture the overacted rubbing that ensues. “What’s happened?”

  “We must have been attacked.”

  “
Well, I could work that out for myself, you fool. Where’s Mademoiselle d’Éon? Have they taken her?”

  I call in my faintest voice from near the tree. “I’m here. Alive, if barely.” I open my eyes to watch my champion creak to his feet and stumble in my direction.

  His nostrils flare as his eyes catch and hold onto mine. “Who the devil preserved us?”

  “I don’t know. Some vision…” I falter.

  Lord Douglas rubs his head again in pain and irritation. “What on earth do you mean?”

  “He was like a knight of old – he rescued us and vanished.”

  “Did you see anything?” A deep sigh shows he’s humouring me and my vision.

  “Only a white coat and a flash of steel; I was trying to protect myself as these late blackguards hit me with their sticks. They were, I’m sure, about to ravish me. It all happened so fast, but I thank my blest Maker that it did. He preserved my virtue and saved all our lives.”

  “Who? We’re all in his debt. Did he leave no clue?” My would-be defender looks this way and that.

  My eyes echo his, as in a game of tennis. “I don’t see anything about. I can’t even tell you what he looked like, he was so fully armoured.”

  “Armoured?”

  I nod. “You can see his footprints.” The marks in the snow could be anyone’s.

  “Wait – where’s my sword?” Monin pats his empty scabbard.

  “Look at this.” Lord Douglas removes the sword from the third brigand’s side, causing an eruption of putrid gore. “Is this it?”

  Monin inspects the hilt. “Yes. Now how did that get there?” His gargoyle stare engulfs me.

  “Well, I am at a loss,” I say.

  Lord Douglas eyes his servant. “Why should this saviour use your weapon when he seemingly has a good one of his own?”

  “Beats me, my Lord.”

  I offer them no help. My protector looks baffled, but the dwarfish servant regards me with dark, troll-like suspicion.

  * * *

  Our course through Poland and the middle of Germany is necessarily constrained by certain factors. The snows are less severe than in Russia, but still prevalent. I wish to avoid Warsaw in case Count Stanislaus has returned and, frustrated by repeated rejection from Grand Duchess Catherine, now desires to resume his importunate advances on my person.