The Chevalier

  “It’s glorious,” I agree with Catherine before I turn back to address Katya. “Venice cannot be any more beautiful than St Petersburg.”

  “Never mind all that,” says Katya. “I want to go there – and to Italy. It’s so boring here. Anyway, tell us about your sister.”

  “She’s very well,” I say. “Happy. Yet she remembers Petersburg with great affection.”

  “Really?” queries Catherine, spreading out her white dress of finest spun silk to sit on the bay window seat.

  “What’s she doing now?” says Katya, ceasing her bouncing.

  I only need to think for a second, so long have I been preparing for this day. “Enjoying a rest with our family and the company around her. Reading, music, good conversation – you know how life goes…”

  “But does she miss us?” Katya pleads. “She promised she’d come back.”

  “Of course.” I take out a note scribbled on the long road from Libau in the moments free from quarrelling with my companions. “She gave me this letter for you.”

  Katya tucks it up her flounced sleeve. “Oh, sir, I thank you. I’ll read it later. I want to savour every word. You’re so alike, you two. Did she tell you much about us?”

  “Yes. It was hard to get her to stop sometimes. I feel I almost know you already,” I confess. Katya’s keen powers will see through me if I let her remain too close.

  “Your voices are also quite similar,” challenges Catherine.

  “People have often remarked on it.” I turn to meet her eye. “Mine is a touch deeper, if you were to hear us together. Hers is more musical in timbre. But what is new in Russia since she told me all about the Court?”

  “Nothing’s changed: that foolish Prince d’Askov has yet to propose, so I’ve still had no adventure.” Katya lies back stretched out upon the bed. “I spend half my time at the Winter Palace, to very little purpose. The Empress has been distracted since your sister left – sometimes I fear for her. She’s had several bouts of illness. No new lovers to speak of. Young Shuvalov and Uncle Mikhail are quite exhausted.”

  I have no doubt: I tire at the thought. “I’m very sorry to hear it.”

  “She couldn’t even come to my birthday supper because she declared herself too worn out from the coronation party,” says Katya. “Imagine!”

  “So you must now be…?”

  “Thirteen, yes. Isn’t it fun?” Katya sits up on the counterpane, hands around her knees, and her brown eyes aglow.

  “My sister didn’t mention your birthday.”

  “No reason for her to know when it is. But did she tell you Catherine had a lover?” Katya gabbles. “You must have heard all about him, Count Saltykov?”

  Catherine rises from the window seat and steps forward towards the bed. “Quiet, Katya, I’m sure the Chevalier doesn’t want to hear about our little liaisons.”

  But Katya carries on, breathless as a fawn running wild. “Well, he’s gone. Elizabeth packed him off to Finland. Admit it, Catherine. You were heartbroken.”

  “He had his uses,” Catherine concedes.

  “So guess what the clever girl’s done now?” says Katya.

  Catherine dives to clap her hand over the would-be Princess’s mouth. “That’s enough.”

  “I’m sure so resourceful a woman can fend for herself,” I say.

  Katya struggles free, rolls over and jumps off the other side of the bed. “She’s taken a new lover. It makes her far too busy to ride with me these days.”

  Catherine dives across the crumpled counterpane and chases after her young friend. “The Chevalier couldn’t be less interested.” She traps Katya in a corner and reaches out to grasp her once more.

  “I bow to your judgement,” I say. “My interest waxes and wanes.”

  “You’ll be amazed.” Katya is too quick, ducks down and evades Catherine’s lunge yet again. “Count Stanislaus Poniatowski.”

  * * *

  Poniatowski, now confirmed in his position representing Saxony, is calling upon his mentor from the Court of Saint James, Hanbury Williams, at the latter’s mansion a few hundred yards away. The English Ambassador pours two glasses of excellent claret and bids his sometime secretary be seated. The men look out over the waters of the Neva, where a fleet of small boats are jostling for position.

  “There are rumours a French legation has arrived in the city, Sir Charles.”

  “Stuff – there are always rumours. What makes you believe them?”

  “They correspond with reports I’ve received from friends in Poland. Urgent reports.”

  “Well, even if they’re true, it seems the French have come too late. The Treaty’s terms are on the verge of being announced. Our main business here is done.”

  “Let’s hope so.” Stanislaus nods and peers at his friend. “Do you think that little governess has anything to do with this?”

  Williams drinks a half-glass. “I’m sure of it.”

  “So am I.” Stanislaus starts to reflect on the governess’s charms.

  “I knew something was strange about her. Didn’t you say you met her in Poland?”

  “Yes, when discussing the succession with Augustus.” Lost in his memories, Stanislaus dreams on a while. At last he snaps back into the present. “But will you still support my claim?”

  “If English money and the Tsarina’s troops have any say, you’ll sit next on the Polish throne, my boy.” Williams smiles and reaches out to pat his hand. The two men watch as more and larger boats crowd into the crammed channel.

  * * *

  That evening, Count Woronzov takes us all to an imperial fireworks display. In the chill twilight, the westering sun shimmering its last light on the waters, we march down to the Neva.

  Katya engages the presumed Lord and Lady Douglas in a tirade of youthful chatter, glancing back intermittently. The Count makes sure that they are well ahead of us, before he turns to me. “I’m afraid that after Paris and Versailles you will find this very dull, Chevalier.”

  “On the contrary. It’s a splendid treat.” I look at him with the best illusion I can give of disarming frankness. “The Empress Elizabeth will be here, I assume. My sister told me how much she loved a show. Might you be able to make an introduction?” It is impossible to tell whether he knows my subterfuge.

  “You are correct, in principle. However, in this case, I am afraid it will not be possible. My niece may have mentioned Her Majesty has not been well recently. I doubt very much she will come down.”

  This is a grievous blow. Why have I come? Despite my protestations of firework virginity, I am used to seeing the displays laid on by Louis to recognise French victories – or indeed any action that remotely approaches a success – so my expectations are not high. One firework is much like another, I believe. I could not be more wrong.

  Fanning out over the Neva in a gigantic semi-circle, the vast flotilla of boats and barges drawn up as launch pads gives me the first intimation of my error. Amid the barrage of noise and the bursts of coloured lights, the ignition of the rockets leaves us with a double image; just as one goes soaring into the air above, so we divine its mirrored twin plunging into the waters below. Repeated thousands upon thousands of times, the impact overpowers my senses. The Russian onlookers also appear entranced, sighing and gasping in unison at the flashes, fizzes and explosions.

  And the length! It takes hours. So much time and effort must have gone into preparing this extravaganza. The brilliance of the spectacle is staggering, leaving even the fabled Bourbon luxury in the shade. If the Tsars were ruling in the West, then they might court revolution for this opulence. It must have cost the earth.

  “You are impressed, Chevalier?” The Count has not mistaken my look of awe.

  I nod. “Have you been seeing much of the Tsarina? Before her illness, that is. I gather you were a particularly special friend.”

  “Do you so? Your sister’s information is accurate, I must confess. Of course, she had a great influence when she was here. An influence I u
sed to share.”

  More rockets swoosh into the air, as if Russian forces are massing to storm the heavens. The flaming trails follow each other like armies of fireflies on a summer’s night. Each vessel in the long line of seagoing craft rocks at its moorings, creating waves that wash over the barriers on the shore to lap at our feet.

  “Are you telling me, Count, that you no longer exert the same influence?”

  He watches as a shower of sparks descends. “The thing is, when the call for my – how shall we say – advice is not so frequent, then it follows I do not always have the Empress’s ear.”

  Columns of Roman candles erupt, for all the world like miniature versions of Etna and Vesuvius, streaming bright but ephemeral lava.

  “So have there been adverse effects on the French cause here?”

  “I regret to say there have.” He blows his nose into a scented handkerchief. “Encouraged by their formidable Ambassador, the persuasive Hanbury Williams, Elizabeth has signed a treaty with England.”

  Now the presiding guardsmen set off a line of blazing wheels that spiral with increasing speed, making their boats and barges sway with the blast, multiplying the images on the waters, and wreaking further havoc on my disordered senses. Yet I am lucky in comparison to one or two guards, who, under attack from rogue fireworks that spin themselves loose from their perches, have to throw themselves into the murky river to avoid burning to death. I watch as they are dragged, still smouldering, aboard a waiting boat.

  “What do you suggest I do?”

  “We can only sit and hope,” he says. “As soon as she hears the brother of her former favourite is at hand, I’m sure she will be keen to see you. She’ll make the utmost effort to recover.”

  Another volley of rockets shoots into the night sky and bursts in the heavy air over the fortress just across the river. The crumps and booms are even more deafening than those preceding them, signalling that the show is finally reaching a climax. For a series of split seconds after the explosions, the landscape is lit up for miles around, as if by lightning. I peer at the familiar landmarks. One thing is missing, but I cannot quite tell what it is.

  * * *

  As we return, dazzled, from the firework jamboree, the Count detains my Lord and Lady Douglas in his library. Left to my own devices, I find a letter from my Lord in his antechamber, waiting to be encoded. It is a characteristic mixture of servility and bombast, one I am sure he wished me not to see.

  I am very greatly pleased at the behaviour of Monsieur d’Éon. I have been long acquainted with his zeal, and his attachment to his work. He will be most useful to me, and also of good service to the King. Besides, he is steady and prudent. I introduced him yesterday evening to the Vice-Chancellor, Count Woronzov, who spoke to him in a kindly fashion and seemed taken with him. Upon consideration, he is no longer of his former opinion; he now thinks that the original plan for the accomplishment of our mission should not be followed, for particular reasons known to the Empress, which I shall have the honour of specifying later.

  Silent, I rail at the insufferable arrogance of the man. Introduced me to Count Woronzov, indeed! If it were not prejudicial to our cause, I should expose the sham Lord Douglas for the craven bully he undoubtedly is. Just as I am returning the letter to its place, Katya enters the room, eyes still aglitter from the pyrotechnical display.

  “You look excited, child,” I say.

  “My uncle asks me to bring news – you must be a conjuror indeed.”

  “Why, what have I done?”

  “You’ve roused Her Majesty. Word of your arrival has reached Elizabeth, as he foretold. The Empress will receive you at her Court tomorrow afternoon.”

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Metamorphosis

  I prepare myself for my latest ordeal by dressing in my fine light blue lace coat, trimmed with silver filigree, my pantaloons of the same shade, my shirt a torrent of elegant folds, the cuffs ornate in their precision. My clear recollection is that the Empress favours a dandy: I pause to remember my flawless presentation in Marie’s blue dress the first time I came to the Russian Court.

  Marie adorns herself with a gown of gold, a sheath of clinging satin so pure in its magnificence that, a lump rising in my throat, I come near to choking. To cool my spleen, I have to stop and turn my head away. The only consolation is that Guerchy does not notice my distress, so lecherous does his eye become.

  We make our way to the temporary Winter Palace, down long roads I remember well, through the fresh heat of an early summer day. In the streets and at Court, all is noise and bustle. The usual crowd of gawkers and supplicants are waiting their turn to go into the Empress’s reception hall. I recognise the lofty Nikolai on guard outside the chamber.

  Anxious to leave his real title and false name with Nikolai for an announcement, Guerchy shoulders his way to the head of the line. Just as he is about to speak to the stooping guardsman, another dialogue – which I’ve contrived – commences. With precise timing, her small form dodging through the crowd, a breathless Katya rushes up to us. “Monsieur d’Éon, my uncle wishes a brief audience with you.”

  “What? Now? Can’t it wait, Katya? We are about to attend Her Majesty.”

  “He says it is most urgent.” She bounces eagerly upon her spot.

  “You’re sure?” I say.

  “I’m positive.”

  “Lord Douglas, Lady Douglas.” In Russian style, I rise up on the toes of my leather boots. “You will please excuse me.”

  “Make sure it is a quick word, sir,” barks Guerchy. “Our mission cannot wait.”

  Marie throws me a beseeching look. “Come back soon. I’m depending on it.” Now she tells me – but it’s too late to change my plan. I turn away to follow Katya.

  At my back, I hear more muttering from Guerchy: “Always a damned nuisance, that young thing.”

  I do not know if he refers to me or Katya; nor do I much care. Hurrying off with her, I hear loud cracks as guards fling open the main doors, forcing them back upon the wooden walls.

  “The Minister Plenipotentiary from France and his… retinue.” Nikolai’s stentorian cry breaks through the babble, giving Guerchy no option but to enter the chamber.

  Perfect.

  * * *

  As the bells ring four, the Empress nods to her Chamberlain; upon his signal, Nikolai encourages the reduced embassy to move forward from the far end of the hall. A brief fanfare rings out behind Marie’s left ear, making her flinch. Recovering her poise, she and Guerchy try to maintain a steady pace as they weave through the crowd.

  The Court is arranged in semi-formal session, Elizabeth already lazing on her throne. Around her mill the ill-matched heirs of her Royal Family, Peter brooding in his dark blue military garb, Catherine bright in a flowing orange dress. Heavy-breasted Lisaveta lurks in the background, her large doleful eyes fixed on Peter. Men in the French party wait in their customary positions, exchanging looks of quiet triumph, trying to suppress bursts of lively chatter. Primed by Woronzov as to where sympathy for their cause lies, Guerchy and Marie flash brief smiles in their direction.

  However, they can feel the heat of hostility, the deluge of bad breath from the ranks massed to their left. On this flank, Bestuchev, Williams, von Tirpitz and their cohorts belch out a grumbling of discontent. Dark, hooded eyes glare at the Minister’s small procession. Even Count Poniatowski, close by Williams’s side, tears his lovelorn gaze away from Catherine to study them, his placid face hardening at the sight of Lord Douglas. Guerchy throws back his head in an unconscious twitch; Marie rubs her ear, still aching from the herald’s blast. All other courtiers stand aside as they draw near the throne.

  A tense hush falls. The procession reaches Elizabeth and, after another gesture from the Chamberlain, Guerchy kneels.

  The Empress’s voice is quiet, subdued. “Please present your credentials.”

  “Lord Douglas, Minister Plenipotentiary from King Louis XV of France.” Guerchy lifts his eyes to address the Tsarin
a.

  Elizabeth extends her white gloved hand for him to kiss. “You may rise.”

  “And my wife, Mary, Lady Douglas.” Guerchy beckons Marie and she curtseys as low as she is able, showing an upper terrace of white breast.

  “Enchanting. Did you come alone?” Elizabeth’s smile to Marie is brief, distracted – she appears to be looking round for another, someone not present, yet special and long-sought.

  * * *

  A second fanfare rings out, the trumpeter having proven susceptible to some extra drinking money. Given my introduction, I enter and sway through the ranks of courtiers towards the throne. I’m aware that everything about me – my sense of style, my attitude, my bearing – cries out that I am French. On the right, our supporters – with no Woronzov on hand to advise them – appear confused. The harsh prattle of Russian voices on my left ebbs and flows once again: no doubt they’re always glad to see a show of defiance within foreign ranks. They stand back to observe the likely clash between our two French delegations.

  Some bright spark, Williams I believe, cries out a warning, making a connection with my first visit. There’s much murmuring and nudging. However, I sense that no one is sure of exactly who I am. I could be an old friend, I could be a stranger. Everyone seems to remember the little governess: she was an attractive young woman. Now, as I approach, I’m the image of elegance and male beauty. How, they are asking, can we be the same person?

  Whatever these courtiers think, Guerchy’s furrowed brow shows anger at my bold upstaging of his entrance. Marie also realises that I’ve tricked him. Her face flickers through different registers; she seems torn between annoyance at my desertion and praise for my sang-froid.