The Chevalier

by The Chevalier (retail) (epub)

  “Where is everyone? You’d think I was a moneylender!” My Lord attempts the jocular.

  “Have you not heard? You must be new in the city.” The innkeeper shakes his head at such levity. “The plague from almost fifty years ago is back. We are doomed to destruction.”

  I step forward on the uneven slabs, but am also careful to keep several yards between us. “Sir, we didn’t know. How many here have died?”

  “Nobody can tell. But it is bound to be thousands – an epidemic. And, you should understand, we have yet to recover from the last one. Two-thirds of our people were lost. It takes generations, generations,” he mumbles.

  “So where should we go?” I say.

  “Away from here, as fast as you can,” he urges, his hands trying to sweep us from the room. “Whatever you do, avoid the houses with the red crosses.”

  Careful not to move with too much speed, lest it spark unwelcome interest, we act upon the innkeeper’s advice. There is a distinct absence of anyone showing marks of disease, but there’s an absence of anyone at all – I suppose it is hard not to sympathise with the people of Libau in their fear.

  Trundling through the deserted city, Marie quizzes me and my Lord on the cause of the outbreak and, finding us blank, concludes: “Very well. Let us assume they are telling the truth. Do you have a plan for our protection?”

  Other than avoiding any possible contamination, we admit that we do not, that we are still formulating strategies, looking at all possible angles; in other words, floundering in our ignorance.

  She regards us with contempt. “I have in mind a scheme,” she says, “that will keep us free from interference till we reach the border.” She enlightens us, and we fall in with her suggestion, having no sound idea of our own.

  The plan is simple. From a country inn that – after much persuasion – gives us overpriced shelter we secure some red felt, make two crosses and affix them to the coach. Plague-ridden by association, we cut a swathe over the Courland flats, streak through drab Mitau past its cowering citizens (the rumours have no doubt preceded us across the plains) and make an ever-slowing dash on sandy roads for the frontier. Marie appears to blame us not only for our paucity of thought but also for the pestilence itself, and stares out at the skies in sullen silence.

  At Riga, we face one final obstacle – the formidable Captain Orlov who, I notice with dismay, remains in control of the border outpost. Looming over us, casting a mighty shadow, he squints at our crimson-marked carriage with all the considerable disapproval at his command. Like other petty tyrants, his memory is outstanding.

  “We meet again. Lord Douglas, is it not?”

  “Indeed, it is a pleasure,” says our protector, who attempts a friendly smile.

  Orlov peers past the General at the two of us in the cramped coach. “And your companion, the beautiful young girl – where is she?”

  Marie bridles still further at the mention of my former incarnation.

  “She couldn’t make this trip,” says Guerchy. “But I am honoured to be escorting her brother, the Chevalier d’Éon, as well as my wife, Lady Douglas.” We both acknowledge Orlov; the bob of Marie’s head is even briefer than mine.

  “And each of you touched by the plague, I see.” He points at the red crosses.

  Guerchy coughs, rather too convincingly for the sake of his argument. “Well, not exactly. This is just a device to hasten our passage through the marshes.”

  “Really? Can you tell me what inspired this device?” Orlov fingers the felt.

  “Coming through Libau,” says Guerchy, “their citizens were labouring under the delusion that the plague has returned – we merely copied the insignia.”

  “How long did you stay there?”

  “Perhaps half a day.”

  “So how do you know it was a delusion?”

  “We saw no signs of an epidemic or any illness whatsoever.”

  “Maybe they were hiding the victims,” says Orlov, taking out a piece of cloth from his jacket and wiping the coach door handle. “Those people lived through a harrowing experience only a few years ago.”

  “They were very keen to tell us about it,” replies Guerchy. “It’s possible they’d buried all the dead, but most unlikely.”

  “Nevertheless, I have to enforce quarantine regulations for visitors to the Russian Empire.” Orlov opens our coach door. “You will remain here under close observation for two weeks until I decide you’re free from all infection.”

  Guerchy is dumbfounded by such intransigence. “But where on earth shall we stay?”

  “We are not sick. This is just a device, as my Lord informed you,” complains Marie.

  Orlov shrugs his massive shoulders. “You can keep your frustration under control, Lady Douglas. Our prisons don’t charge.” He makes as though to turn away.

  I crick my neck to catch the tall Russian’s eye. “Captain, my sister told me such a good story about you. She said how helpful you were in the matter of her entering your country, especially when Count Stanislaus came calling.”

  “You are kindness itself, sir,” he says. “But I don’t see the Count here today.”

  “We are en route to visiting him at Petersburg. And I also have a message I need to give you in private.” I can only hope my wink is discreet.

  It seems to be. Orlov nods, ushers me from the carriage and takes me into the guardhouse. We sit on solid chairs on either side of his uncluttered table. From my breast pocket I withdraw the old note from the Tsarina guaranteeing my safe passage, which by great good fortune, is not only undated, but doesn’t even mention my sex.

  He scans the wording. “This is all very well. However, the regulations…”

  “Are, as you can read, overridden by the decree of the Empress. I understand your caution, Captain, but in this instance I assure you it’s misplaced. Those at the Court will be most upset if you persist. Do you want them to send back news of your transfer? To Siberia?” I’m pushing him as far as I dare.

  Orlov’s tunic rises and falls with his deep breaths as he weighs up the disadvantages of each course of action. At last he settles himself, puts down the note and looks me in the eye. “You must remove the crosses from the coach. I can’t tell you when the next convoy will come through.”

  “Convoy?”

  “It is a necessary precaution against brigands in these parts.”

  “I’m afraid we cannot wait, however stark the danger. Her Majesty would not permit such a delay.”

  Orlov considers a while. “In that case, may it rest on your own heads,” he says. “Will you also take responsibility for flouting the quarantine rules?”

  “I give you my word as a Frenchman that we are all free from infection.”

  “Nevertheless, sir, I would prefer your signature to this document.” He thrusts a different paper out at me on which I scrawl my name. “One other matter puzzles me. If you are about to enter our country for the first time, Chevalier, please tell me how you come to have a warrant signed by the Tsarina?”

  “But is it not obvious, Captain?” I rise, swivel on my heel and walk back through the guardhouse into the spring air; he follows, reluctant to be led yet eager to hear my reasoning. “The pass has been sent to Versailles under diplomatic seal, since your wise Tsarina anticipated just such a reception from her keen frontier guards.” I indicate his slouching detachment. “She wants us in St Petersburg. As soon as possible.” I signal my success to Marie and Guerchy.

  Orlov gives a harsh command to his troop, and waves us away. With ostentatious gusto, I tear the strips of red felt from the carriagework, and mount the steps back into the coach. We pass on into Russia.

  * * *

  Once we have ridden a league or two, we pull off the cart track that passes muster for a road, and find a clearing in the forest. With great care, Marie and I replace the red crosses on our coach, while Guerchy and Monin keep watch for bandits, vampires and other undesirables. None appearing, we are able to resume our journey. If any ruff
ians see us on our path through the northern Russian wastes, they give us a wide berth.

  However, so do all the natives – and we must therefore rely on our servant’s halting German and snatches of Russian to procure us food and drink as we speed through frightened villages and terror-stricken towns. We have to wait out of sight, beyond the fringes of these settlements, because no one will serve Monin if they connect him with a coach they think infected.

  Nor will they give us rooms. We spend our nights cooped up in the carriage, so that the antagonism Marie seems to hold for me is further rekindled, and the antipathy between Guerchy and the two of us exacerbated. Each morning the fetid air adds to the discomfort from our aching bones. It is a long road to Petersburg, and I fix my hopes on one night of solitude and fresh bed linen before we arrive. However, the wary gatekeepers in Caporya take one look at our red crosses and deny us access to the village. The comforts of the City of Paris remain out of reach.

  As we bounce away on rutted tracks, I fancy I see Olga leaning out to spy on us from an upstairs casement, but I cannot be sure.

  * * *

  The sun is high in the sky, glinting off what remains of the last frosts of the year. Even so far north as this, there’s a suggestion of warmth and buds are breaking through the sodden turf. I lean out of our carriage window to look at St Petersburg from a vantage spot on the Duderhof heights. The distant view enchants me, although the intervening country remains a forbidding tangle.

  We crawl out of the carriage to stretch our battered limbs.

  Marie is clothed in russet brown skirts, blending with the marshy earth, and an emerald cape, mimicing the green shoots of spring. She stands upon a rocky outcrop and shields her eyes against the sun. “Is that the city far down there?” This harmless question is her first kind word to me in days.

  “Yes.” My finger describes an arc over Petersburg. “You have to admit it’s a fine situation.”

  “So much water,” she says, “if indeed those glinting beads really are canals?”

  “It’s as magnificent as Venice, or as Amsterdam.”

  “What do you know of either?” scoffs Guerchy.

  “Sir, I may not have been on visits,” I say, “but I have travelled there in my imagination. Those are the greatest voyages of all.”

  “Your imagination does rather a lot, it seems.”

  I let him imagine my reply.

  Wanting a theatrical coup to quieten him, and to inspire Marie, I look in vain for the racing horses, for the vibrant Katya, for Catherine’s upright haughtiness in the saddle. There is no such reprise – I pray that no harm has befallen them. Our party returns to the carriage and we start to descend through the thick woods and marshes that obscure our goal.

  * * *

  I’ll say one thing for Monin – he’s a good guide to the environs of this or any city. Once he has ridden a road, he knows it for all time. Well, for nine months at least. We carve a confident path through the taiga, coming at last to the city gates, and into streets first narrow and then broad. As six bells ring out with that harsh, cracked Russian clang, our carriage rattles through the unmanned gates of the Woronzov Palace. We cross the courtyard – stinking even more of horseshit than I remember – and pull up outside the gargantuan front doors.

  Monin, also able to spot supreme truculence in his fellow major-domos, decides not to compare his powers with Alexei and loiters by the carriage. After some backchat from that sardonic servant, who remains as unwilling to allow admission as ever, Marie and Guerchy enter the Palace; with me, I must confess, Alexei is even more obstreperous, scrutinising me with much suspicion. Finally he allows me to traipse after them.

  Our party soon reaches the withdrawing room. Alexei shows Marie and Guerchy in, while I hang back several paces behind them. From the doorway, I observe the scene. It is a rare moment of collective repose: Woronzov, Katya and Catherine lounge on comfortable sofas and chairs arranged in a semi-circle, each one engaged in reading from a variety of books and manuscripts.

  Alexei announces us in his curt style: “Your Excellency. Another party from France here to disturb our peace. I’ll give ’em a few weeks, maybe days.”

  Woronzov, ever the perfect courtier, rises first. “Thank you, Alexei, that’ll do.” He scowls at his servant, who retreats from the room, his superiority intact. “Delighted to meet you all, I’m sure. Count Mikhail Woronzov.”

  “Forgive us this intrusion, Count. I called here on my last visit to St Petersburg,” Guerchy replies.

  Sharp as a lancer’s point, young Katya recognises the voice, puts down her book and leaps to her feet. “Lord Douglas!” But she is looking beyond him at me: I attempt to shrink into the walls behind the mismatched couple.

  “I have not had the pleasure, sir,” says Woronzov. “At least I don’t recall it. Lord Douglas, you say?” He glances at Katya. “Did you not tell me something, sweetest?”

  “The honour, sir, would have been mine, had you been present,” replies Guerchy. “Urgent business called me away to Prague before we met. No matter. I return as Minister Plenipotentiary to the court of Elizabeth Petrovna from the Most Christian King, Louis XV of France.” He swings low with surprising grace. I can barely hear the creak of his knees.

  Woronzov bows back. “Then you are most welcome.”

  “May I introduce my wife, Mary, Lady Douglas,” Guerchy says.

  “Charming,” acknowledges the Russian dandy, pressing her bare fingers to his lips. I feel my teeth grind in quiet jealousy.

  Marie curtseys low in reply. “You have a glorious home here.”

  “Thank you, my Lady.” Woronzov’s smile is brief, yet laced with kindness. He turns to the General. “What brings you back?”

  “State business. This time I have a despatch for you in my official capacity as French representative in Russia,” says Guerchy. He hands over the letter to Woronzov. While the Count reads it through, I feel the eyes of Catherine join those of Katya and fix themselves on me. The pressure is mounting – I may contrive to remain in the background for a while, but the many chandeliers and wall candles are banishing all shadows from the room and, in consequence, putting rather too much emphasis upon my face.

  “Your companion strikes a chord,” Katya says, a little chuckle in her voice.

  “He does rather,” agrees Catherine.

  And now I am discovered – my time for thought is up.

  “Ah yes, my personal envoy. The Chevalier d’Éon de Beaumont.” Guerchy wafts an arm in my direction.

  So action it must be. “At your service. You may have met my sister when she stayed here?” I advance into the room.

  Catherine’s intelligent eyes sparkle with cruel fun. “Indeed we did.”

  “Did she tell you about us?” Katya is still the epitome of eagerness, mouth hanging open like a pup deserving a treat.

  I throw my gaze upward, giving them the impression of a search through crowded memories for my sibling’s account. “She told me Petersburg was magical. She said the Winter Palace was a wooden marvel, awaiting the reconstruction of the real thing. But she claimed the buildings were only the outward show, that wherever the Court commingled, it was full of captivating people. And she concluded, I’m quite sure I recollect, that the most fascinating of all were to be found at the Woronzov Palace.”

  Even the intelligent nobility are partial to flattery. There are smiles all around.

  “Mademoiselle Lia was such a good friend,” says Katya.

  “I hope I will be, too,” I say.

  There’s a long look between us. Marie tenses, with a visible rictus tightening across her cheekbones – I am shocked how envious she seems at my natural intimacy with a young girl, however sophisticated.

  “Well, you’ll be needing rooms.” Woronzov rubs his hands, dispelling the taut atmosphere.

  “That would be very kind,” agrees Marie.

  “Let me show you to them.” With an elegant gesture, Woronzov starts to usher Guerchy and Marie away. “Katya
, look after your friend’s brother.”

  “May I put the Chevalier in the bedroom next to mine?” calls Katya.

  “By all means,” her uncle replies.

  His indulgence towards her has a double edge, one side most dangerous for me. I can see internal alarms are ringing more strongly within Marie’s doubting mind, leaving those cheekbones twitching. She turns as though she wants to stay with us, so little does she trust me now, but Guerchy’s strong left arm propels her from the room.

  Katya is alive, as usual, to adult interplay. “Is Lady Douglas quite all right?”

  “A little fatigued from the journey, I believe.”

  It suffices. Katya knows already when to leave things alone. “Come on, Catherine. Let’s find out all about our friend,” she says.

  “More yours than mine,” says Catherine. However, I notice the Grand Duchess also looks most diverted by my appearance, traces of merriment softening the serious cast of her features.

  We follow Woronzov and the acting Douglases at some distance up the great stairway. When we reach the upper floor, they turn left while Katya leads us in the opposite direction, down a long corridor of patterned Turkish carpets to her room. Memories of my brief sojourn here in former days come trickling back into my mind. She indicates the next-door bedroom for my use, bypasses it and leads us straight into her own. I recall it well: it resembles the room of a scholar at one of the finest universities, the lodgings of a rich young nobleman at the Sorbonne.

  In counterpoint to her precocious intellect, young Katya can still play the child; soon she is bouncing for sheer joy upon the bed. While the springs squeak, Catherine points out the city views to me by lamplight at the window. My time at the Woronzov Palace was so short on my last visit, I never had such opportunity. All about us, the silver waters of the Petersburg canals glitter in widening concentric circles like refulgent necklaces around the dark profile of an ancient queen.