The Chevalier

  “What’s this I see?” Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Guerchy waddling across the room. As is his custom, he shows awful timing. He shouts out an obscenity when he discovers who’s performing. Unnerved, Marie prises herself apart from me.

  “Sir, these young people are obeying my command,” explains the Empress. “I told them the fate of your embassy rests on their submission to my whim. It’s just a harmless display to gratify their seniors. Relax and join me in watching them.” Her eyes lock onto his.

  “But this is my wife… my assistant… French prestige,” stumbles Guerchy.

  “No one ever tells what happens at Metamorphosis. A glass with me – I insist.”

  With ill grace, he accedes and sits down by her side. One or two others, encouraged by the Empress, waft over to look at us. In a strange reversal of my earlier unwillingness (perhaps I have drunk too much wine?) I am anxious to resume, and so, I am starting to believe, is Marie. She is breathing hard and her eyes are now heavy-lidded. We kiss again. Once, twice. Yet the heat is going from the moment – our intensity is dissipated by the widening of the audience. This is no doubt for the best, tactically speaking. However, my aversion to physical contact is ebbing away: I can only regret the break in the fusing of our passions.

  The Empress grows bored with our display once she divines that the spark has been lost. Soon, she taps on our shoulders, yawns and beckons Nikolai to tell the guests to leave. Marie disengages herself and I adjust my petticoats and stays, smooth down the scarlet dress and rise from the divan. Before she turns to go with the crowd, we exchange a look of infinite tenderness. It seems Marie and I are to be left with just another fleeting memory.

  “One moment, Chevalier,” says the Empress. “Do you know what your sister used to do for me?”

  This is a question fraught with difficulty. I see the sudden whitening of Marie’s knuckles as she clenches her fists. “Why, Majesty, I gather she was your lectrice.”

  “Quite so. There’s been no one to take her place.”

  “How can I help?” As though I cannot guess.

  “You will please me again tonight by reading from Montesquieu. Since your sister took her copy back to France, I have found another.” She snaps her fingers: Nikolai produces a gilt-embossed volume bound in maroon leather. “And, just so I can imagine it is my Mademoiselle Lia who serves me, you will maintain your female costume for the night.”

  Marie is growing colder to me every second. In desperation, I turn to Guerchy. “Do you not need me to discuss affairs with you, my Lord?”

  His smile is vicious. “I suspect we can manage without you at this late hour. As long as my Lady Douglas is satisfied?”

  Marie looks anything but – both physically and as a judge of proceedings. My glance begs her to protest, but she is turned to ice and says nothing.

  Defeated at the last, I bow my head.

  “Excellent,” the Empress says, clapping her hands.

  Guerchy smirks: “Enjoy your reading, Chevalier.” Now he can tell Marie unfettered tales of my deviancy. His peasant skirts usher her and my blue coat away.

  In sorrow, I watch the last ranks of the midnight hedonists retreat. The Tsarina waits until they’re gone, sends for her servants to clear away the debris and takes me by the arm.

  First, she guides me to a small door in the corner of the room. Here she brings out a key and turning the lock, propels me into the secret passageway we walked down before. The lights are burning low. We come into the open hall where all her rich variety of clothes, worn once, still wait to be put on again. Four torches at each corner sputter, casting a dim glow. My eyes slowly become accustomed to the gloom. The staggering wealth this display offers me, row upon row of the most gorgeous dresses fashion can provide, still thrills me beyond anything I’ve ever seen.

  “Remember this?”

  “Of course. How could I ever forget?”

  “I’ve been thinking about the dress that I’d like Tocque to paint you in.” She points to a silver satin gown, sparkling with diamonds and sapphires embedded on the bust and front. “How do you like this one?”

  “My heart’s desire. But Lord Douglas won’t give me the chance to slip away.”

  “You’ll have to come to Metamorphosis again. I’ll spirit you here every week, until the portrait is finished.”

  It is a wild but tempting prospect. The Empress sees me wavering. I will have to secure the agreement soon, or I am lost.

  “The pleasure will be mine.”

  “Quite. And now it’s time for you to minister to me.”

  Elizabeth escorts me, as though she were a general with an aide-de-camp, along two further torchlit corridors into her private bedchamber. Once more the gaudy riot of colours and staggering trompe l’oeils assaults my senses. She dismisses both her handmaidens, who grant me lingering stares but slink off gratefully.

  “It is a great honour to return here, Majesty.”

  She waves away my praise. “You must see what they’ve done in the real Winter Palace.”

  “I should like that very much.”

  “You’ll agree it puts this in the shade.”

  I can scarcely credit this, but know all things are possible where her extravagance is concerned. Yet I must register my great unease about the night’s activities. “Your Majesty, do you think this encounter wise?”

  “Of course; it pleases me,” she answers, turning over the Montesquieu in her hands.

  “But you are putting our whole project at risk.”

  “Calm yourself, my sweet. One echo of our former intimacy can’t hurt.” With a sigh, she sits on the bed and passes me the book.

  There is nothing more to be done. “Very well. I will read from Book VII, chapter 17,” I say. “The chapter is entitled: Of Female Administration.”

  The Empress arches a tired eyebrow, removes her military jacket and lies back.

  I watch her drape her limbs over the pillows, and commence: “It is contrary to reason and nature that women should reign in families, as was customary among the Egyptians; but not that they should govern an empire. In the former case the state of their natural weakness does not permit them to have the pre-eminence; in the latter their very weakness generally gives them more lenity and moderation, qualifications fitter for a good administration than roughness and severity.

  “In the Indies they are very easy under a female government; and it is settled that if the male issue be not of a mother of the same blood, the females born of a mother of the blood-royal must succeed. And then they have a certain number of persons who assist them to bear the weight of the government. According to Mr. Smith, they are very easy in Africa under female administration. If to this we add the example of England and Russia, we shall find that they succeed alike both in moderate and despotic governments.”

  Elizabeth rouses herself, bridling at this opinion. “Do you say I am despotic?”

  “Not I, Your Majesty, but the Baron. However it is merely a descriptive term; I can assure you it has no pejorative meaning.”

  “Nevertheless, I find him presumptuous.” Elizabeth’s lip curls; her eyes take on a dreamy hue. “You may recall your earlier Ambassador, Marquis de la Chetardie, who guided me to power fifteen years ago. For that, I was grateful. Yet once he took it on himself to advise me too arrogantly, he lasted not five minutes.”

  Five minutes later, she is sleeping; soon after, so am I.

  * * *

  Late the next morning I return, drowsy, in an imperial carriage, to find a bleak reception at the Woronzov Palace. Guerchy is irked with me for usurping his position, as he sees it, with the Empress. He has, I’m quite sure, been traducing me to Marie. Despite her vast distaste for him, she will not let me put her false suspicions to rest. Meanwhile Katya, inspired by seeing me in the red dress, seems to regret she cannot be as close to me as she was to my sisterly self: I retire to my bedchamber for an hour to avoid them all and change. Marie does not even talk to me when I return her gown.


  The Count is absent at a ministerial luncheon and we miss his smooth urbanity. Our own meal passes in frigid torpor. In the mid-afternoon, Guerchy accompanies Monin to return the maid’s peasant dress. He makes a show of wanting to offer virtuous thanks, which conceals probable vice. Dejected, Katya takes Marie with me for a walk along the riverfront. We are a silent, sombre party. I point out to Marie the great fortress over the waters – but still I feel there’s something missing. Yes… now the landmark for which I was searching unconsciously during the firework display comes back into my mind, in all its sun-swept glory.

  “The tower! Where is the tower?” I am confused: I am close to betraying myself to my young guide. “Surely the far bank of the Neva is focused on one?” I collect myself. “My sister described it to me in such minute detail.”

  “Gone,” Katya replies. “It burned down not two weeks ago.”

  “And the saint on high? Also destroyed?”

  Katya nods in corroboration. “We are now without protection from the Prussians, Swedes and English, unless someone can intervene.”

  “So our embassy will have to succeed…” I let my conclusion drift across the waters. It appears my momentary slip will pass unnoticed.

  “I know you’re seeing the Empress tonight,” says Katya. “I can rely on you, my little d’Éon.”

  My senses are affronted. This is not such a thing as a girl of thirteen should say to me. Nonetheless, I maintain my self-control, smile and grasp her hand. “I shall let neither France nor Russia down. You can be sure Petersburg will be preserved.”

  And not just saved: enhanced, it seems. We stroll past the echoing, clanging Winter Palace where Rastrelli’s great work of refurbishment is in progress. Already, from without, the mighty scale of the project is becoming clear: mirrored, Elizabeth tells me, by lavish ornament within. For good or ill, its shorefront grandeur shall rival Versailles.

  * * *

  As we return to the Woronzov Palace, Alexei calls Katya away to deal with some business concerning ingredients for dinner. She leaves us at the top of the stairs: Marie is heading off towards her bedroom when I clutch her sleeve.

  “I must speak with you,” I say.

  She struggles to free herself. “Why should I talk to you? You raise my hopes only to betray me at every turn.”

  “My only aim is to succeed in our mission. How can I do otherwise?”

  “This seems to involve using me for your own ends.” She is close to tears. “You leave me at Court, with that monster, in circumstances that come near to humiliation.”

  “I thought I had explained that.” I pull her to a window seat in the corridor. “Yes, I’m sorry, I didn’t have time to inform you of my plans. But don’t you see? My whole strategy is also fixed on defeating Guerchy.”

  She sniffles. “You desert me and later, when it suits you, you force yourself upon me.”

  “That was not my intention or, indeed, my doing. You don’t know the Empress. She will have her way in all things.”

  “Like last night, I suppose. And now you’re seeing her again. Alone.” She chokes a little on the final word.

  “Please trust me, Marie. She has invited me to see her as a mark of favour. It will help us to fulfil our ambitions.” My gaze is long and earnest. “And, you recall, the Chancellor will be there.”

  The sounds of Guerchy and Monin returning bounce upward from the hall below. She jumps to her feet. “So this visit will be strictly part of your negotiation?”

  “I told you. I have only one purpose in mind.”

  “Keep it that way, Charles.” She hurries down the long passage to her room. I glance outside – a thin summer mist is rolling in from the sea.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  The Treaty

  A haze is falling over St Petersburg. The mist covers the Neva, sidles along canals and creeps over the city, obscuring all the well-known features so that no one can tell the place, the hour, or even whether it’s night or day. Within a moment comes a clue – a cannon shot from the fortress across the river salutes the sunset. The report is not deadened by the mist; in fact, it seems to float further on the vapours. It penetrates a council room deep in the wooden Winter Palace. Elizabeth, resplendent in a light pink gown, is facing Bestuchev across a broad, polished table, the latter furious. His chair has been kicked over. A map of Europe, with white and black counters massed either side of Russia’s borders, is laid out between them.

  “Look how they threaten us. You seriously intend to change foreign policy because of this… this…?” Bestuchev is seized with a sudden fit of coughing.

  Elizabeth waits for his choking to subside. “He is an admirable young man.”

  “He’s no more than a mouthpiece.”

  “I want to hear what Louis says.”

  “France is near bankrupt. They can’t pay their own armies, let alone ours.”

  “They’re now allied to Austria.” Elizabeth walks away from the table, the crisp silver-plated tassels on her long gown swishing on the floorboards.

  The Chancellor throws up his hands in desperation. “For the while, perhaps. But Prussia will defeat Austria. And then where will we be?”

  “All the more reason to oppose the Prussians.” Elizabeth pauses in front of a mirror to smooth her flowing hair. “It’s odd, Chancellor, because you used to hate them.”

  “I did, Your Majesty, and then I changed my mind.”

  “What happened?”

  He swills a glass of water down his throat. “I met so many of them during the last wars.”

  “You grew to like them?”

  “No, I liked them less. I grew to fear them.”

  “So you fear them and England?”

  Bestuchev’s cheekbone is starting to exhibit a nervous tic. “And what of England?”

  * * *

  “England?” I burst into the room. I glance from one to the other, and quickly catch the mood. They are not in harmony. There is an opportunity for me here.

  “England should be our natural ally,” blusters the Chancellor.

  “The English are no friends of yours,” I say. “Have you not heard they’ve signed a new accord with Prussia?”

  Bestuchev dismisses this with a wave of his arm. “It means nothing. You know how they are. They can easily tear it up.”

  “Just as they’ve torn up their agreement with you, I suppose,” I say, my gaze flitting in the direction of the Empress.

  Elizabeth looks thoughtful. “It’s true. They help us only when it suits them.”

  “Of course – that’s diplomacy,” Bestuchev explains with studied patience, as if to a child. “It just happens to suit them now the French are starting a fight.”

  This is too much for me to bear. “The English have begun the wars worldwide. They’re always the aggressors. I demand an immediate apology.” I draw my sword and take a pace towards Bestuchev.

  He shrinks back, pawing at his scabbard. “I’m in the right. You shall not contradict me in my own country and at my sovereign’s Court.” It seems his weapon is mired in the sheath.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse Elizabeth: she’s watching us, enthralled. “We want peace,” I bellow. “It’s the English who provoke us.”

  “They command the seas,” spits Bestuchev. “You’ll be destroyed.”

  I turn my head to face the Empress. “Let me run him through.” I flourish my sword, threatening Bestuchev, although I take some care to keep my distance. His record as a duellist, I hear, is most impressive. And killing him would not be politic.

  “Enough, Monsieur d’Éon. You’d better leave us, Chancellor,” says the Tsarina.

  “Your Majesty!” he protests.

  She gestures with brutal economy towards the door.

  Bestuchev withdraws, taking short backward steps, all the time keeping his untrusting eyes on me. I sheathe my sword. The door slams shut behind the Chancellor – we are alone.

  The Empress smiles upon me. “I’m surprised to see my new env
oy so upset.”

  “Can’t I show any feelings?”

  “Of course. Now come here.” Elizabeth caresses me, soothes me, teasing me gently. “You’ve made your case and I’m listening. Tonight we’ll talk, after you’ve read to me. Tomorrow I want you, Lord and Lady Douglas to attend a musical recital in my honour.” She coaxes a strand of hair from under my wig. “You’re quite a new man.”

  * * *

  Before the concert, I indulge myself in a peaceful walk along the banks of the charming Griboyedov canal – alone. Turning down Italianskaya Street, I come to the lavish new Palace at the junction with Sadovaya. A Moor in gold livery, page to the wealthy Ivan Shuvalov, greets me at the pillared doorway. He ushers me into an open hall, where musicians are setting up their stands in front of the far window. Even if the size of this Palace room had not alerted me, the number of players shows me this will be no chamber piece.

  The page indicates a seat for me between Katya and her uncle, who has Elizabeth’s ear to his right. On her far side sits Shuvalov himself. In turn, the Empress’s young favourite is paying court to Marie, on his right, to the evident displeasure of Guerchy at the end of the front row. And, I confess, to mine: I look away.

  All around me I see noblewomen clad in silken gowns studded with precious jewels, glinting from diamonds in their hair, gold bangles on their wrists and strings of pearls around their throats. I fear their very wealth may smother them.

  We grow quiet and the orchestra begins. Soon I am slipping into my customary daydream, lulled by the sounds of some composer popular among English audiences, I’m told – Handel.

  “A pinch for you, Chevalier?” Woronzov nudges me; my dazzled eyes must be on the point of closing.

  I take the ruby, emerald and sapphire snuff box that he proffers. Like everything in the Tsarina’s circle, it glitters with ostentation. The pinch revives me: it seems to sparkle even more. And then I fall to sneezing through the opening bars of an andante, much to Katya’s and the Count’s stifled merriment.