The Chevalier

by The Chevalier (retail) (epub)

  The music, once I recover, is sublime. Woronzov assures me that this same Handel has composed exquisite accompaniments to the royal fireworks and – less promising, in my experience – the glories of travelling by barge. He also reveals the composer is in fact a German, who – like the Kings of England – has come across the North Sea from his native land. So he may compare in some small way with the maestro Bach, and prove a counterpoint to the brilliant Vivaldi.

  Hearing the last strains die away, I am keen to discuss the merits of my marvellous new discovery with some music-lover, or frankly anyone, but it is not to be. The conductor’s baton has scarcely dropped before the Empress prepares to hurry me back to her apartments. “I need some literary sustenance after that,” she says.

  Guerchy glances at Marie, investing all manner of debauchery in her request.

  “You want another reading? Surely I cannot compare with my sister?” I hesitate. Woronzov elbows me again, as though to urge me on. The high and mighty persons of the Court are hanging around us, Shuvalov and Bestuchev most prominent.

  Elizabeth dismisses them, takes me in hand and leads me across the hall’s chequered tiles towards the doors. “Every bit as good, my dear.”

  “But aren’t her tones mellifluous?” I look back at Marie, who turns away. The Empress and I are moving from Shuvalov’s Palace into the warm night air.

  “Well, so are yours.” She pauses. We are now out of earshot. “And I tend to find them more convincing.” A roguish smile lights up her drawn features.

  “Both of us are your servants, Majesty.”

  A laugh. “That is what I expect.” She waits while Nikolai opens her carriage door.

  “In that case, I shall be reading from The Spirit of the Laws, Book II, chapter 5.”

  The Empress lets out a long sigh. “More Montesquieu!” She allows me to propel her weary limbs into the coach.

  * * *

  Elizabeth gives another sign that she is weakening: she spurns a glass of wine. She sprawls upon her bed in disarray, allowing me a brief vision of expanses of imperial thigh. Averting my eyes, after first showing her that they have feasted, I turn to the bookcase and take out the promised volume.

  “This chapter is entitled: Of the Laws in relation to the Nature of a despotic Government.”

  She frowns. “So! Still harping on despotism, are we?”

  “It is a tribute to your great authority.”

  “I think it merely shows your nerve.” However, her stricture lacks bite.

  Steeling myself to her objections, I begin: “From the nature of despotic power it follows that the single person, invested with this power, commits the execution of it also to a single person. A man whom his senses continually inform that he himself is everything and that his subjects are nothing, is naturally lazy, voluptuous, and ignorant. In consequence of this, he neglects the management of public affairs. But were he to commit the administration to many, there would be continual disputes among them; each would form intrigues to be his first slave; and he would be obliged to take the reins into his own hands. It is, therefore, more natural for him to resign it to a vizier, and to invest him with the same power as himself. The creation of a vizier is a fundamental law of this government.” I close the book.

  “And do you suggest the Chancellor is my vizier?”

  “I suggest nothing. It could be the Chancellor; it could be the Vice-Chancellor. It is for you to choose.”

  Elizabeth leans back. “Your ideas exhaust me.” She is now propped up only by crushed cushions, spread out like a beached starfish on the bed.

  “But that was not my aim at all.” I kneel beside her. “On the contrary, I wish to stimulate your mental faculties.”

  She gives a little groan. “Things have changed since you were last in Russia.”

  “You don’t mean that, Your Majesty. They look much the same to me.”

  “Come on! Stop using that tone. I’m serious.”

  “So am I. Why do you think I came? Naturally, I am in the service of my country. But also because you asked me to, and I gave my word I’d try.” Not that I was ever anticipating so speedy a return, but that is beside the point.

  She grasps my hand, which is at once fully engulfed in hers. “It is very sweet of you.”

  “There is another reason, apart from our affection and sealing the alliance.” I pause and look up at her. “Do I understand you’ll be supporting Count Poniatowski’s tilt for the Polish crown?”

  “I suppose I will.” Her once flawless face is marked with lines. “There are good arguments for doing so, yet I have found equally plausible grounds against.”

  “Very well. In that case, when we have discussed and agreed King Louis’s treaty, I have another proposal. The French Court has fallen in love with the miniature you gave me. Don’t demur, Your Majesty – it’s a fact. One of them wants to marry you, a most distinguished man, Louis’s cousin, a Prince of the Blood. He is Louis-François de Bourbon, Prince de Conti.”

  Those enormous lazy eyes latch onto mine. “So do you bring a formal offer of marriage?”

  “Not in so many words, but you have my assurance all France would rejoice if it came to pass.”

  “I’m not so sure all Russia would.” She leans back further once again and her fingers slip from my hand. “Tell me some more about your Prince.”

  “He is a widower of thirty-eight years, with one son and heir.” I deem it best to omit mention of the Comtesse de Boufflers: Elizabeth might find the fair Charlotte an intolerable obstacle, and have her lashed in minutes. “He is handsome, cultivated, refined; the epitome of French noblesse. Yet he has also proved himself in war, and has a most distinguished record of royal service. There may not be a man alive your equal, but he would be the closest thing.”

  The Empress’s laugh contains a dash of cynicism. “Surely this paragon has many mistresses?”

  “Mistresses? The Prince?”

  “Answer me.”

  “I could not possibly say, Your Majesty.”

  She frowns, unconvinced. “I’ll give it some consideration.”

  It’s time to change the subject. “Tell me one thing. Why have you never married?”

  “Do you think I would enjoy such freedom as I have now? I am my people’s wife and mistress. That is best for us all.”

  “So you have never been in love?”

  “I didn’t say that.” She stays silent a while, doubtless contemplating her amorous affairs. “Now, let us to the real business, my little Chevalier. We don’t have much time. You must see what’s going on: I’m ailing and everyone’s plotting against me.”

  “I’m certain you’re mistaken, Majesty.”

  She shakes her head. “Bestuchev knows why you’re here. He’ll do anything to stop our treaty. Even put Peter on the throne if he has to.”

  “You know how to deal with Peter.” If I remember right, the craven bully, except when surrounded by his regimental guards, is terrified of his adoptive mother.

  “That’s not the point. Anyway, I’m not so sure about Catherine. I think she wants the throne for herself. Ambitious German hussy – can’t think why I chose her. She’s taken a new lover, this Stanislaus, the man who would be King of Poland. I’d only just got rid of her last one.”

  I recall Catherine’s anguish at the departure of Saltykov. “Is it sound policy to make an enemy of her?”

  “I’m doing it for her best interests. She can’t put herself in his pocket.”

  “Like Woronzov, for instance?” I regret my candour at once; if Elizabeth falls into a vindictive mood, I will suffer for such a remark.

  “That’s different. You know he’s in mine.” She yawns. For the moment, she is tolerant. “Now if you want me to fulfil your plans, go to Catherine for me and see if you can get her to climb off her Pole.”

  * * *

  Early the next morning, I find Catherine and Stanislaus in the large gardens near the Palace. They are hunched together on a seat in a hidden bower, Cathe
rine in her tight English riding jacket. Tearing her eyes away from her lover, she regards me with her habitual air of mild amusement: “Good day to you, sir. Are you acquainted with Count Poniatowski?” She seems bent on treating me as though I am a modern variant of the court jester. This is bearable: things could be much worse.

  Indeed, they prove to be much worse with Stanislaus, whose hostility is fierce. He turns his head away ostentatiously. Despite having seen him at Court, I am now conversing with him for the first time since my return. “May I introduce myself? Charles, the Chevalier d’Éon de Beaumont.”

  “I know who you say you are.” He may be forgiven for resenting the interruption of his dalliance, but I still find him insufferable.

  “How so, sir? What are you implying?”

  At last he deigns to look me in the face. “You have a sister who travelled here recently?”

  “That’s true,” I say. “She told me about you.”

  “And did this sister pass through Warsaw?” He rises. I sense him note we are of the same height. Just as before.

  “So I understand.”

  “What did she tell you of the visit?”

  “Nothing much. Did she not stay at your house?” I pause for a moment to add credence to my apparent mental effort. “Oh, yes, there was a story right enough.” He shivers at the memory of his conduct. I hold back a little, just to make him sweat. “She said there was some problem at the Russian border. It so happened you were travelling in a coach just behind her party, and were instrumental in conducting their passage through to Petersburg.”

  His smile is one of relief. “I was pleased to help her.” He may not believe who I say I am, but I have security for now. If he challenges me, Catherine shall know of his assault. We have established that each of us holds information dangerous to the other.

  Nevertheless, I cannot count on his forbearance forever. I soon change the topic and tell Catherine the news of the Tsarina’s plans for her.

  Her outrage is as I predict. “Never in a thousand years!” Catherine hurls her riding hat into the bushes. She glowers up at me.

  I falter a moment under her onslaught but do not take a backward step. “I only pass on what I’ve heard.”

  Stanislaus takes his lover’s hand in his own to reassure her. “She’s done it before. We must be prepared.” However, his face turns quite white at the prospect of the Empress ordering such a separation. His schemes of love would crumble into dust and, if he were to fight Elizabeth, his kingship plans would also pass away.

  “But she won’t dare do it again. She needs me as much as I need her. And you’re different to Sergei Saltykov; you’re not her subject.” Catherine’s eyes blaze at Poniatowski.

  “We all exist at her mercy,” Stanislaus reminds her.

  Catherine rises from her seat in the arbour. “That may be so, but I will defy her. There is no woman bolder than me, not in all Russia, not in the wide world.” Indeed, in her riding boots, she towers over us, giving substance to her Amazonian fervour. “Let her know she won’t deprive me again.”

  It is clear Catherine has changed in the few months since I left, and not just in the manner of her allegiance. She has become more romantic, more ardent since Elizabeth banished Saltykov; her eyes now gleam, they fascinate, they are glassy with the look of a wild beast. Her hair is swept further back and betrays a lofty brow – if I am not mistaken, there is a long, terrifying future written on that forehead. Of course, she is mostly affable and obliging, but now when she comes near me, I instinctively recoil. She frightens me: I do not know what she might do.

  * * *

  After giving the Empress an edited version of our exchange, I join Katya in walking back to her uncle’s Palace. I am tired and she, unusually, is still taciturn – I am now certain she resents me for the reserve I have been showing her. So perhaps my efforts to differentiate my nature from my sister’s are succeeding.

  We find Woronzov, Guerchy and Marie at table, gnawing on some roast duck in a leisurely fashion. Katya has sent word of our coming, but as I enter, Guerchy allows his knife and fork to clatter onto the china plate in feigned surprise. “Where have you been? You haven’t stayed all this time with the Empress?”

  Woronzov wipes his lips with a napkin, and indicates by a raised eyebrow that he’ll support any tale I care to concoct.

  However, I want confrontation. “Yes, I have. Doing your job,” I reply. I feel no need to tell them of my meeting with Catherine and Stanislaus.

  “Well, she just won’t see me.” Guerchy spreads his hands in weary acceptance, before jabbing a finger in my direction. “And I blame you for that.”

  “What’ve you been up to with her?” Marie quizzes me, very much on her mettle whenever the subject of my social intercourse with the Empress arises.

  “Nothing – just my duty,” I say, regretting it instantly.

  A bitter laugh slides from Marie’s lips. “You called it that before.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “God only knows what you did mean,” says Marie. “Because I can tell you I have no idea.”

  “We don’t see much of you,” Guerchy adds, unhelpfully.

  Marie nods, her brow furrowed in anguish. “Please, remember your mission.”

  There’s a brief pause – I inhale deeply. Everyone at the table does the same.

  “You’re right,” I say, thinking that I should be grateful that – in some small measure – Marie shows me how she cares. “I know what I have to do. The hour is approaching.”

  “What’s happening?” Woronzov’s diplomatic senses are finely tuned to changes of mood. “Have you heard something?”

  “I’m seeing her again tonight. I think she’ll sign.”

  * * *

  Torches, sparse and well-covered, illuminate the wooden corridors that lead from the Great Chamber in the temporary Winter Palace. As daylight fades, Bestuchev and Williams make their slow way past clerks and supplicants hurrying from the Court. Seeing that they are at last alone, they step aside to loiter in an alcove in the shadows.

  “You think she’ll run with the French?” Williams is scratching his nose.

  “I gave her every reason not to…” mutters Bestuchev, seemingly resigned.

  The Black Fox pounds his right fist into his left palm. “Then we must kill the messenger.”

  “An official diplomat? This is dangerous talk, Sir Charles.”

  “That Lord Douglas won’t be sorry to see him go, I’ll wager. If it really is a man,” Williams sneers, his voice drenched in scorn.

  Bestuchev studies him with care. “So you also think it’s that governess?”

  “I don’t know what it really is. It may be a man dressed as a woman, it may be a woman dressed as a man – all I know is I want it dead.” The Black Fox slaps his reddening palm against the palisade. “Guard every entrance to Elizabeth’s rooms.”

  * * *

  A grey half-light suffuses our northern world. The silent mist of the white nights is crawling over us. I’m not expected by the Empress: I sense I need to make my visit secret, and spot the chance to right a previous wrong. I ask Katya if she wishes to accompany me, and she accepts with traces of her former girlish enthusiasm. She and I meander through well-populated streets, figures emerging all of a sudden from the fogs and vapours, towards the wooden Winter Palace.

  “How long will you stay in Russia?” she says.

  “I don’t know. We may receive orders to return at any time.”

  She looks at me sidelong. “I used to tell your sister how much I envied men.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “And you’re the living proof.” Katya pouts at me. “You can come and go as you please.” Her head droops as though she were an oppressed serf.

  “It’s never that simple.”

  “We had such good times together, we two girls. I felt useful to her. I don’t feel I’ve helped you.”

  “I think we have different roles. You can’t expect to relate
to me exactly as you did to her. She and I – well, you know – we are by no means the same person.”

  “That’s my point. Men can do things for themselves.” Katya sighs long and deep.

  I shake my head. “Men need all the help women can give.”

  “You’re just saying that.”

  “Not at all: I need you. I can demonstrate it now. I must gain entrance to the Empress’s boudoir. All the main routes to her quarters are being watched, even at night. Can you take me through the quiet backways?”

  “What, unobserved?”

  “Yes. Well, unseen by anyone that matters, if it’s possible.”

  She grips my hand with youthful ardour. “Oh, of course – how exciting! I’ve played many such games since your sister left. I have to reach home without anybody asking me a question. If they do so, in my game I’m dead.”

  We walk past the entrance to the wooden palace and turn down a small street several strides beyond. Within a few more paces, we come to a side door. We follow the smells of burning meat into a huge underground cavern, passing tradesmen bearing away unused foodstuffs to give to the poor in the Empress’s name. The lines of carcasses roasting on spits could be a vision of hell. Katya leads me through these enormous kitchens, down echoing corridors and up the dark back stairs to the imperial anterooms. Only one man bars my way – Nikolai, the chiselled hunk of a guardsman who waits eternally outside Elizabeth’s door. He is a massive obstacle, but Katya, pushing me back out of sight, is swift to divert him.

  “You there! My handsome soldier,” she calls out.

  He checks to see he’s unobserved and she’s alone. “If it isn’t the young Princess.”

  “I think the Prince has forgotten me.” She laughs in sad self-deprecation. “Will you marry me instead?”

  He puts down his musket and sweeps her up in his arms.