The Chevalier

by The Chevalier (retail) (epub)

  While Nikolai is thus preoccupied, I slip past him into the Tsarina’s antechamber. Quiet as a fox in the Forest of Fontainebleau, I open the door to the boudoir. Elizabeth is seated at her writing desk, quill in hand. I tiptoe into the room, take my papers from my coat and place the treaty in front of her.

  She pushes her letter aside and turns to look up at me. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m come about our great project,” I say, flashing my brightest smile.

  She does not smile in return. “The one you launched by subterfuge.”

  “A necessary device, Your Majesty.”

  “Not many people trick me. You’ve done it three times now.”

  “It was never my intention to deceive you, just to confound some of your advisers.”

  She rises, reaching for her riding whip. “I can’t help feeling I should imprison you for your presumption.” Her eyes are burning with some of her old fire.

  “But you know in your heart that I am acting in your interests. Russia will benefit from my enterprise.” Still, I back away.

  “And France, of course.”

  “That goes without saying.”

  She flicks the whip – once, twice – against her own flank. “I suppose you did come back as I asked.” She nods slowly.

  “No one could have kept me away, Majesty.”

  “You’re a deceiver, sure, but you’re a sweet young thing in all your guises.” She lets the whip slide down to the floor, where it nestles beneath her boot. “I’m minded to side with France. And Frederick irritates me with his arrogance.”

  “Our King feels the same way.”

  “He will not change his course again?”

  “I’d swear he’s set on it.”

  The Empress takes a long, deep breath. “Then I shall sign for you.”

  “For us, Majesty.”

  She shuffles her correspondence into a pile, unfurls the treaty on her writing mat and poses with her pen above the paper. “That’s all I need to do?”

  “That’s everything.” I watch myself hovering over her, our reflections shimmering in the glass.

  Her lustrous eyes entrap me. “I’m not sure which mode I prefer.”

  “What do you mean?” I know perfectly well.

  “You realise I could now keep you here, don’t you? You wouldn’t ever dare to let the truth be known outside these walls.” She smiles at me teasingly.

  My teeth start nibbling my lower lip. “I hope you won’t think that politic.”

  “I might. Lord Douglas could carry this. If I let you go, would you return again?”

  “Providing events fall our way, I can dream of nothing better.”

  She considers the possibilities, turning her head a little to one side. “Well, take this back to your King. But then come to live here for good – and serve me.”

  “By doing so I serve you and my King.”

  Elizabeth thinks for a moment. “Did you know my father proposed me in my youth as Louis’s bride?” The smile showing her wry amusement at events in life returns.

  “What happened?”

  “The Bourbons rejected me.”

  “Ah, Majesty, they did not know what I know – and what a Queen of France you would have been!”

  “Perhaps. But Russia would have lost an Empress.”

  My bobbing head acknowledges this undoubted truth.

  She is lost for a time in contemplation. At last, Elizabeth writes her name, in Russian and in French. Laying down her quill, she looks up, rakes me once more with those bright eyes, then, with a tremor, hands me the signed treaty, and turns her face away. Over her shoulder, I see in her mirror that, try as I might, I can’t suppress a smile of triumph – I’ve succeeded.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Breakout

  A black waistcoat is being unbuttoned to cope with a heavy meat course. In his waterside Embassy, Williams is taking his time over the third serving of his substantial dinner. “I cannot in all conscience advise His Majesty’s Government to change policy until I have clear evidence.” Outside, grey fog still hangs above the Neva.

  Across the table, Stanislaus lounges sideways on the armrests of a chair, his silver-buckled shoes dangling in the air. “What more do you need? She’s taking you for a dupe. You know how fickle she can be.”

  “Nevertheless the Empress put her seal upon the Treaty of St Petersburg with us. Only the other day, I might remind you.”

  “Come now, Sir Charles. She’ll just excuse herself by saying you haven’t fulfilled the terms.”

  The Black Fox lifts his knife and fork to take another mouthful, then thinks better and lays them down again. Pushing his chair back to give his stomach breathing space, he raises his hands in acknowledgement. “I don’t think there’s a thing in the world would keep that woman satisfied.”

  “Quite so.”

  “You should be master of this type of female, Stanislaus. Aren’t you riding a Russian mare?”

  “She’s a German mare, Sir Charles, as you know very well.”

  “Oh yes, I was forgetting. Why be the slave of a Slav when you can be the pet of a Pomeranian? Brains, beauty – and passion: all in the same package.” He cradles a wine glass in his hand. “Torrid, I’ll be bound.”

  Stanislaus is about to protest, but checks himself: “Exhilarating is the word I’d use.”

  “And how often are you being exhilarated each day, my boy?”

  Before Stanislaus can think up an amusing reply to deflect him, the door crashes open. Bestuchev, sweating from exertion, lumbers into the room. “Gentlemen, the deed is done. She’s signed.”

  The candles flicker in the draught: as Bestuchev slams the door behind him, several waver and die. As the dining room darkens, the mood around the table changes. All raillery done, Williams puts down his glass with exaggerated care. “How do you know?”

  “The Chevalier was seen leaving her chamber – in demonstrable high spirits.”

  “He should never have got in there. Did he have any papers with him?”

  “Not according to my reports, but they do say he had a book.”

  The Black Fox nods to Stanislaus and rings a little bell. Evans, his chief aide, materialises in ghost-like fashion from an anteroom and stands beside the perspiring Bestuchev. “Round up a search party,” Williams orders his agent. “We’re hunting this young French chameleon.”

  * * *

  There is a loud, persistent knocking at my door. I can guess who it might be. In great haste, I shovel my bags out of sight under the bed, but I can do nothing to hide all the clothes and papers upon it. When I open the door, Guerchy is waiting, aglow at my discomfiture. He pushes past me into the room, and waves a hand at the debris. “Going somewhere?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I thought you might have concluded your business with the Empress.”

  “No. Merely rearranging my belongings.” I grab some shirts and start to fold them.

  “I wish you joy of it. Now Lady Douglas will be interested to hear of your… rearrangements, I’m sure. Be that as it may, I’m determined to prevent you both from repeating your disgraceful exhibition of the other night. In public, or in private.” He tries to peer around me at the papers on the bed.

  Leaning to one side, I shuffle over to block his gaze. “So what do you have planned, General?”

  “I’ve informed her that she and I have it in mind to visit one of those country palaces. Peterhof, was it you said?”

  “You’ll find it most admirable.”

  He nods. “I must say I’m surprised to hear you letting Marie go without a fight.” Now he’s trying to look over my head.

  “What good would it do?” I rise upon my toes, as far as I can. “It doesn’t mean I’m pleased, far from it, but I’m applying the strategic principles you taught me, sir. You are in control of her movements – and we both know it. I’m being pragmatic.”

  “I’m delighted you’re seeing reason.” He eyes me suspiciously. “Yes,
a brief parting might benefit us all.”

  “Or at least do no harm. And when might I have the honour of welcoming your return?”

  “Tomorrow, my little d’Éon. I know you’ve been negotiating hard on our behalf. But you realise I must be there for France at the kill, as it were? Don’t you see?”

  “Of course, Minister.”

  He gives a little snort. “Don’t play me false now, or you’ll destroy this good impression I am gaining of you.”

  “I shall be true. France will understand your worth.”

  “Until tomorrow evening, then.” He leaves me with the spectre of a smile creasing his rugged face and ambles off down the corridor.

  So I will not be able to say goodbye to her. I’ve made a ruthless decision, but a necessary one.

  From my window down onto the courtyard, I watch them leave. Marie glances back up at the Palace in some anxiety – she appears to be under considerable duress. My heart beats fast at the sight of her: I wish so much that I could intervene but I have a vital task to fulfil. As their carriage rattles away through the gates, I call on my favourite sardonic servant.

  “Alexei, do you wish to make some extra roubles?”

  He purses his lips. “Very kind of you, sir. But you’re not really my type.”

  “Don’t be an idiot, man. I’m talking about some clandestine activities.”

  “They pay me well here, sir.” Yet he does not move.

  “I have no doubt of it. What I am going to ask of you would not put your life in jeopardy. But if you cannot say you’ll do it, then mine most certainly will be.”

  He thinks a moment. “Does it involve Lord Douglas?”

  “Indirectly.”

  “And would it confound him?”

  “Assuredly.”

  “Then I will help you.”

  “Good,” I shake his hand with a degree of manly brio. “First, please ensure this note goes to your young mistress Katya. She will be at the wooden Winter Palace. I think you know where to find her there. And organise two carriages, one at the back gate, for my bags to be taken down to within the hour. No one must know of this, you understand?” Upon which I press some coins and an address into his hand.

  “You may rely on my discretion. As indeed, sir,” he says, pausing a fraction too long for my comfort, “you have done so far.”

  Alexei is still insolence personified – yet I believe he will prove as good as his word. We say our farewells and he goes about his business. I retire for an hour or two to rest.

  Dozing upon my bed, I hear a run of muffled noises in the yard that make my heartbeat jump. When my blood begins to flow again, I sidle to the edge of the window, taking care to throw no shadow, and peer out into the grey murk. Soon my eyes are able to distinguish some vague shapes. From my vantage point behind the curtains, I watch the outlines of ten men upon the cobblestones, flitting between the still, graceful forms of horses. The men are crawling ever closer; some seem to be carrying muskets. My fingers tighten on the red velvet drapes; without disturbing them, I sink to the floor and inch away from the bay windows, which jut out from the walls enough to attract fire from all sides. I stretch myself on the Persian rug behind the bed, racking my brain for a solution. My Russian host and friend is absent from his house, I’ve sent his servant on an errand and I am now without even Guerchy’s dubious protection. I am in mortal danger: I close my eyes for a second. It is essential that I think most clearly. It is yet more vital that my plan reaches fulfilment.

  * * *

  Other plans have been laid for the Woronzov Palace. Williams, Evans and their group of eight masked raiders creep through the courtyard, dodging the horses – behind them in the gloom, their own large carriage idles by the gate. The grey-coated shapes close in upon the walls. Williams curses as he feels his boot slide on a lump of horseshit, and he falls with a soft bump upon the stones.

  “Are you all right, Sir Charles?” The cool presence of Evans is beside him.

  “Bugger, worse than the ring at Newmarket…”

  Suddenly, a shaft of light shines from an upstairs window – a single candle, glimmering. Williams gets to his knees, steadies himself, removes a silver telescope from his jacket and peers up at the second-floor room. He is just able to see a blue neckerchief stitched with white fleurs-de-lys hanging on a wardrobe. It’s the Chevalier’s room, he can tell. A second later, a dark form blots out the light.

  With a frantic wave of his arm, Williams signals his men to seek cover. There is much scurrying hither and thither between the horses. One by one, the raiders take refuge behind a large cart.

  Just as they fall silent in their places, there’s a commotion behind them at the gate, the whinnying and neighing of their horses as they greet new arrivals. Another carriage hurtles towards the Palace, scattering the raiding party to the narrow sides of their cart. The carriage halts right by the doors. Red-faced and bearing a torch, Alexei opens the door with far more speed than usual. Katya, wearing a broad green hat and draped in a green cloak, descends the coach steps with great care and enters the house. The carriage remains stationary, the breath of the horses evaporating in the night air.

  Once Alexei’s torch has vanished into the house and the doors are shut, the grey-coated intruders creep round the cart and reassemble in a ragged line behind it. When all is quiet, the Black Fox raises his telescope once more. Soon he observes the figures of Katya and the Chevalier appearing in the upstairs window. They move closer and embrace for a moment. The kiss does not last long yet they remain within touching distance.

  “Disgusting!” exclaims Evans. “She’s a mere babe-in-arms.”

  “Shut your mouth, you silly fool,” hisses the Black Fox.

  One soldier cocks a pistol, another raises a musket, but Williams motions them to put their guns away. The shades in the upstairs room still do not move apart. Below, the uncomfortable voyeurs shift on their haunches as the tension mounts. A potentially erotic proximity between the Chevalier and Katya lasts some while – finally, they step back from the window and are lost to sight. The spies collectively exhale.

  The white summer night is beginning to turn cold. Williams blows on his hands; several of his raiders follow suit. As the clouds of their breath mingle, midnight strikes successively at all the churches around Petersburg. The bells resound for ages.

  With the dying of the last echo, the clear outline of young Katya comes again to the window, waves down to her coachman, and disappears. The light in the room immediately goes out.

  “We’ll move in when she’s gone. Don’t want the blood of the Empress’s goddaughter on our hands if it goes wrong,” Williams whispers to Evans. The latter signals their men to stay alert. Sporadic muted clangs of steel on steel ring out: swords are drawn from their sheaths and bayonets are fixed.

  Soon, Williams sees Katya’s figure, wrapped up against the night in her green hat and cloak, leave the front door. She slaps her dozing driver’s boot and climbs aboard the coach. A flurry of hooves on the cobbles and her carriage moves off at speed. As it rumbles through the gate, the Black Fox orders the assault. Four of the men are skilled climbers: they mount like cats, flitting up the Palace drainpipes. Handholds are everywhere, and the pipes are sturdy. They soon reach the second floor.

  In silence, these masked raiders ease up the window sash and clamber in. They make their stealthy way across the unlit bedroom. A body is lying in the bed, asleep. Knives drawn, the soldiers surround it on three sides and throw back the sheets. On the mattress, wearing the Chevalier’s long white silk shirt, lies the young Katya.

  * * *

  Thank God the girl’s quite tall for her age, whereas I am relatively short. I lie low in the borrowed coach as we race through the city, trying to keep warm in Katya’s coat and flimsy clothes. A package on the floor contains my own jacket and breeches, tightly folded, and a few effects. I’m clutching my passport from the Empress in my fist – and the treaty to my bosom. The latter represents my fortune if and when I retu
rn to France, whereas the former should ensure the city gates cause me few problems. First, I must put on my own suit of clothing once again. Changing my costume while crouching in the speeding carriage is not the easiest task, but I accomplish it just in time before the guard post. However, I am forgetting one aspect.

  “Your departure has not been posted in the press,” the Lieutenant of the Guard points out.

  “True, sir. But you will see this note in the Empress’s own hand, with her imperial seal, gives me exoneration due to the imminent threat of war.”

  “Nevertheless, I cannot allow you to pass until I’ve sent for instructions.”

  What bloody-mindedness is this? I am thinking of retrieving a dagger from the depths of my jacket’s lining, when I hear a blessed familiar voice.

  “Hello! Is there a problem here?” Woronzov is a welcome sight at any time, but never more than now.

  “I am just requesting an order over whether to let this carriage pass, my Lord.”

  “Wait there, Lieutenant.”

  Woronzov comes over towards me. “Alexei told me you’d be heading this way, and I thought you might need some assistance. Always like to see my carriage through.”

  “Thank you for everything.” I grasp his hand.

  “Don’t mention it.” He smiles farewell and turns away. “You, man!”

  The young Lieutenant approaches us. “My Lord?”

  “Can’t you see what’s happening here? Elizabeth needs this envoy to make full speed for France and commands you to let him pass. She’s even ordered me to lend him my carriage. Don’t you recognise my coat of arms? There’s a transfer to the far reaches of the Caucasus in store for you unless you obey at once.”

  The Lieutenant starts to shake – he has no answer to this. I am away.

  Once into the taiga, Woronzov’s carriage runs fast to the south of Petersburg, as it is crucial that it must. Guerchy will be more than half a day behind, but I decide to take no chances and dress again as young Katya. By my calculations, once the alert is sounded, I will have a few hours or so to make my plans at Caporya before the chasing party tracks me. That is, as long as Alexei has fulfilled the final part of my plan and my own hired barouche is waiting for me at the inn.