The Chevalier

  * * *

  It is. I spot the carriage immediately, stacked with my luggage, as it trundles through the gates of the City of Paris. But there is something more. In the far corner of the courtyard, I notice Monin supervising the changing of horses for Guerchy’s coach. While I thought myself the deceiver, it seems a deception has been practised upon me, to my great distress. It is too late for me to flee. I take up my pack of clothes, get down from Woronzov’s carriage and approach the servant, Katya’s cloak billowing about me, hat pulled down, muffler over my face.

  “Is that the Minister Plenipotentiary’s conveyance?” I manage an approximation of Katya’s breathless tone.

  The creature Monin looks back at me. “Why does my Lady want to know?”

  “He’s a friend of our family. Where’s he going?”

  “Taking Lady Douglas back to France.”

  “That’s a little sudden, isn’t it? My uncle will be most disappointed.”

  Monin laughs. “Says she’s had enough of the place.” He betrays no sign of recognising me. “She has her moods, like you all. My Lord’s bowing to her wishes. Makes a change, I know.”

  I glance up at that moment to see Guerchy appear on the balcony, gripping Marie’s arm. She is subdued, inert: I cannot bear to see her so lifeless. In contrast, he is jovial and waves to me in a sickeningly pleasant manner. “Why, Lady Katya!”

  “Good afternoon, Lord Douglas,” I respond and let go the muffler a little.

  “This is a long way from home for such a young girl.”

  The real Katya would rail at such a patronising claim, but I cannot afford a contretemps. “Yes, I suppose so. I’m meeting my uncle out here.”

  “How very agreeable.” He nudges Marie, who displays no animation whatsoever. “Perhaps we may join you at supper?”

  “I’m sure he’d be honoured.”

  “When do you expect him?”

  “Oh, not before too long, I hope.” At this, my hat blows off in a brief gust of wind. In my efforts to retain it, my green cloak billows open and the muffler falls away. For the first time, my face is clear to all.

  “Come, come, we are deceived,” exclaims my Lord. “Is it the Chevalier pretending to be young Woronzova? Or could it be the sweet Mademoiselle d’Éon?”

  I stall him, searching for possible avenues of escape. “You’re a fine one to mention subterfuge, Monsieur de Guerchy.”

  “Yes, there is that. Odd, though, how we keep meeting like this.”

  “Well, what exactly are you doing here?”

  Marie tries to call out, but Guerchy places his rough hand across her mouth. He speaks over her attempts to break free: “As we were leaving for Peterhof, the Chancellor suggested you might soon be coming this way. He’d heard something from the English Ambassador.”

  “You trusted him? Or any of that crowd?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. Their information seems to be correct.”

  “What else did he tell you?” I burn inside as I watch Marie struggling in vain in Guerchy’s grip, but I’m too far away and there is nothing I can do to help her. I must bide my time.

  “Only that you are likely to be carrying a secret treaty – signed by the Empress.”

  “Not so.”

  “I beg to differ. My sources are impeccable.”

  “And if I am carrying such a treaty?”

  “Quite simple.” Guerchy’s slow smile exposes white teeth and glimpses of red gums. “You must hand it to me.”

  “I’ll guard it with my life,” I say.

  “You’re hardly in a state to do that.”

  “Do you doubt my abilities to protect France’s good name, sir?”

  He shakes his head. “That’s quite beside the point. As your superior, I order you to give this treaty to me.”

  “I’ll explain myself to the King.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” His eyes range over my clothes for possible hiding places. “I’ll be the one to break the good news.”

  He is becoming too confident. Marie senses his attention is diverted, breaks free and yells: “Go, Charles, run now. It’s a trap.”

  It is a curious thing, but somehow I had divined this fact. Yet I won’t run: instead, I will hurl myself into the dragon’s mouth. I make my play just as the fake Lord Douglas snatches at his fake wife. Picking up my long green skirts, I dash across the rest of the courtyard. I leap onto the ladder and climb fast as I can to the gallery, cursing the restrictiveness of Katya’s dress. Marie does not escape for long: Guerchy grabs her arm with one hand, draws his sabre with the other and turns to face me.

  “Are you all right?” I shout to Marie as she writhes in his grip.

  “He’s going to kill you and steal the treaty,” she cries. “Can’t you see? Save yourself.”

  Spotting that Monin has left his sword lying in its scabbard on the balcony’s edge, I seize it. Still clutching Marie, Guerchy advances upon me, flourishing his own sabre. I lunge at him. Once more Marie contrives to wriggle free while he’s distracted. Meanwhile I hear the dwarfish servant scrabbling up the ladder behind me.

  Guerchy is now unconstrained, and slashes hard at my body. I parry him, but not before the upper part of my green dress is cut; I sway, balance myself and fight with the maddened General to and fro across the gallery. At first, Guerchy has the advantage – I am not only smaller, but hindered no end by Katya’s clothes. But, moment by moment, I shake myself free, helped by his swinging strikes which are leaving the emerald dress in tatters, ripping some of the tighter and more encumbering pieces from my body; as we go on, my greater speed and agility start to tell.

  Frustrated by my superior finesse, Guerchy roars with increasing volume. His concentration wavers – he becomes lax. I see an opening and pounce. I flick his sword from his hand and it sails across the balcony. In triumph, I turn to look for Marie. I am too late: Monin is holding her from behind, a knife to her throat.

  Even when things look bleak, there is always the chance of a random element intruding: and now we get one in the form of a detachment of Russian soldiers tramping into the courtyard. Their officer, bewildered, calls a halt.

  “Just in time,” snarls my Lord.

  Well, yes. The question is: for whom?

  Despite Monin’s sharp knife grazing her skin, Marie yells out. “Run!”

  Will the troop help me? I have the Empress’s pass, but I cannot be sure. I look back at Marie. There’s no chance of rescuing her: Guerchy is between us, Monin still at her back. They’ll kill her if I try. She’s trapped – I have to listen to her advice and save myself. I snap back into action, swing down the ladder from the balcony and dash for my barouche, snatching up my package as I pass.

  It’s not so many yards away. I can make it, if my luck holds. Monin shouts out a Russian phrase and a couple of the soldiers start to march towards the carriage, but there is no word from their officer: they dither and shamble to a halt. The confusion buys me time. I jump aloft to take the coachman’s seat, and whip up the horses.

  “Go,” I urge, hoping they understand honest French.

  Amazingly, the beasts respond. The coach gradually begins to pick up speed as it moves towards the gates. Barring an accident, I will be free.

  The pendulum swings. Just as I am thanking the Almighty, Olga comes into my view, balancing pails of water from a yoke upon her shoulders. She will soon be in my path. I have to make a swift decision – can I possibly run her down? I must be single-minded in pursuit of my goal, I know. Yet she has saved me in the past.

  I look behind me. The knife twitches in Monin’s hands, drawing some drops of blood from Marie’s neck. She screams in pain. I hesitate, my grip loosening upon the reins.

  The servant grins. “Stop the coach,” he cries to Olga.

  Olga rocks back, but keeps her hands upon the yoke. “Your credit’s long run out,” she says to Monin, swivelling the buckets away and stepping aside to allow me free passage. Monin scowls in dismay. To fuel his rage, she cheers as I
rush by.

  “Ungrateful wench,” Monin calls out in frustration. He lets go of Marie and scurries down the ladder into the yard.

  “What the hell have you been doing to her, Monin?” shouts Guerchy, picking up his sword.

  “Nothing, my Lord.” Monin scampers towards Guerchy’s carriage.

  “Hell’s teeth!” Guerchy re-establishes control over Marie and starts to drag her down from the balcony. She delays him as much as she can, but soon they have taken up position in their coach. Monin is now in the driver’s seat, spurring on the horses.

  The commander of the detachment at last makes a decision and sends some of his men after me – too late. My solo barouche is gathering speed and I am almost out of the courtyard. The gates are open: my horses charge through, and I am free.

  As I glance back, I see that Olga contrives to stumble in the gateway. Guerchy’s carriage swerves aside at the last second and brushes against her skirts. Some water sloshes from the pails. Monin just manages to keep their horses on track and their coach upright; after a wild lurch, they charge off after me. However, I gain valuable seconds and fortune’s wheel turns again to my advantage – my planning begins to come into play.

  My small barouche is less weighed down and I have a fair start upon them, maybe now a few hundred metres. It is a straight race to the border. All things remaining equal, I feel that I can outstrip my pursuers. Slowly, I extend my lead until they’re out of sight. As long as we do not run into too many divisions of the Tsarina’s army on their way to a stand-off with the Prussians, I may be safe. The villages fly by: soon I shall be approaching Pskov – no problems there. But a question at the back of my mind is troubling me. What will I do when I reach the customs post at Riga?

  * * *

  I am beginning to regret my gamble. The Russian troops are mobilising for war in such numbers that my flight is slowed to a crawl. My papers have passed muster at every stage so far, but I am approaching the frontier guardhouse. What are the chances of the giant Orlov being once more on duty? I fear they are not slim. Although, as I draw near, my hopes begin to rise: numbers may work in my favour. There is such a crush of Russian battalions marching to guard against Frederick, I suspect my case will not generate much interest. But Orlov is officious…

  It is a different captain on parade at the Riga frontier post. I brandish my papers. He glances at the royal seal and waves me through.

  As I pass by, I ask what I should not: “By the way, where is your usual commander?”

  “Captain Orlov? He’s sick, on his way to hospital. The plague, he thinks.”

  “Give him my best wishes for a full recovery.”

  * * *

  The sun is glaring as I reach Mitau. My horse is exhausted, and my fast barouche now battered from the rutted roads. I need replacements and enquire for these within the likely places in the city.

  Hiring a coachman with a vehicle proves to be more difficult than I imagined. Mitau is in turmoil: rumours of Prussian troop movements to the south put off all but the sturdiest and neediest. These are in short supply. However, on the edge of town I find a candidate, his coat hanging off his scarecrow frame, his carriage gathering dust in a crumbling barn.

  “Your name, sir, please?”

  “Kazimir.”

  “Are you for hire?”

  “Now that depends.” A thin, drawn woman and a ragged young girl are watching us from the door of a tumbledown shack. Scrawny hens search for stray ears of grain around the yard.

  “On what?”

  “On the job and the military situation.”

  “There are Russians coming from the north,” I say. “Apraxine is on the march.”

  “We’re better off staying put, then. They’ll not harm us.”

  “But Frederick’s troops might. You’ll be at the sharp end of a pair of pincers, if you don’t watch out.”

  “I’d rather cope with it in my own city, if you want my opinion.”

  I don’t, but I jangle a money bag, and his dull eyes come alight. I give him most of my remaining silver. The woman grins and pats her daughter’s head. They’ll eat.

  “If you take me to Paris, I promise you double. And treble if we’re there within four weeks.”

  I’ll find the money when that day dawns. There are still a few places where my credit’s good, I trust. Meanwhile, my pursuers must be drawing near.

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  In Germany

  Kazimir proves to be a splendid coachman, watchful and dripping with stamina. Moreover, after a brief spell working for one of our envoys to Courland, he has a sprinkling of French, making our days on the road companionable. His coach has passed this way before, and he tells me a tale of when he once had to rescue Eloise de Tarparon from a jaunt with a Prussian landowner and accompany her back to her long-suffering husband in Königsberg. We reach that city at dusk, a fine sight with the sun setting behind the towers. Low rays cause golden lights to play on the lagoon, as though they’re dancing a last minuet of peace.

  I instruct Kazimir to tell the guards at the city gates that I am a plague victim from Libau, travelling to relatives the other side of Berlin. One must use these tragedies and superstitions where one can. It suffices, and I am left alone – but all about me the populace are jittering with talk of coming war.

  As we ride down the street towards the great squat castle, with the spire of the cathedral looming above, I spot a mass of dark blue uniforms marching towards us. Yet another Prussian detachment is heading for the frontier and a potential violent rendezvous with General Apraxine. I pray their mission is too important for them to worry about a lone coach heading into the city. However, my good fortune deserts me. Their officer rides alongside us and addresses Kazimir in German; his question takes an age.

  My coachman’s answer brings a swift result. The Prussian canters after his company, gives an order, wheels and turns back towards us. Kazimir halts the coach and springs down to confer with me.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “You are a victim of the pestilence,” says Kazimir. “And you’re a nobleman who only speaks French.”

  The officer on his grey mare is drawing near.

  “Good. Why is he staying with us?”

  Kazimir shrugs. “He says it is his duty to escort you. But he also informs me the road from Libau has been closed these last three weeks. Military reasons. It is pointless to repeat the story – he will never accept you’ve come from there. You need a new mission.”

  “Can’t he understand I’m sick?”

  “I think he’d speak with you despite that, sir. His name is Captain Gaudi.”

  Kazimir returns to his seat – the Prussian captain dismounts and vaults into the carriage. He is keen-eyed, moustachioed with a sun-bronzed complexion. I adopt an air of languishing.

  “So where are you really coming from, Monsieur?” His French is faultless.

  I don’t know what to say. To admit to coming from Petersburg is impossible. Even to say I have travelled from Mitau would lay me open to suspicion. Suddenly I recall the papers from the Margravine.

  “Captain, forgive me my deception, but I am on a secret tour of Prussian lands.”

  “At such a time as this? What is the purpose of your tour?”

  “Music. I’m conducting an examination of concert halls and musical facilities in the lands of the Great King.”

  Gaudi shakes his head. “All music has been abandoned in Königsberg for the time being. Your coachman has led you a merry dance, I fear.”

  “Sir, I suspect you may be right – but it is the fault of our advisers, not him.”

  “May I then see your papers?” I hand him the pass from the Margravine, dated so many weeks ago. “Bayreuth? You are on the other side of the world now. Have you visited Sans Souci?”

  “I have been saving that treat for last.”

  “Allow me to provide you with an escort to Berlin.”

  I have little choice but to accept. On the bright side
, he offers me protection from Guerchy; on the dark, we cannot make the speed that I would like.

  * * *

  Captain Gaudi keeps his promise. He guides me on the long road to the King of Prussia’s new capital, and for the few leagues further out to Sans Souci. This time my run of luck returns. King Frederick is not in residence. The notorious warmonger is visiting his troops on the southern front, no doubt prior to launching the onslaught around Silesia everyone is waiting for – the treaty is becoming even more urgent.

  Mindful of my declared purpose, the Captain takes me to the concert hall within the Palace to hear music from a composer new to me, Carl Philipp Emmanuel Bach. I do, however, know the surname. The piece is a cantata written to celebrate Easter; unusually for them, the Prussians are well behind schedule.

  The staging of this work is also most unusual. All the members of the orchestra are visible; all those in the choir are hidden. Their voices sound as if they come from the underworld, as though Christ himself were being welcomed by the shades. Indeed, the players are all dressed in black, with black drapes behind them, only the light of a few candles showing the concentration etched upon their faces. This Lutheran gloom is not in sympathy with my own faith, but I cannot deny its effect.

  On my enquiry, Gaudi undertakes to discover if my hunch about the composer is correct. I am delighted to hear afterwards that Carl Philipp is a son of the great Johann Sebastian.

  The following morning, my military host gives me a tour of the Palace – a small, single storey affair, quite frivolous for someone like the King, with his avowed warlike nature. We survey its grounds. Sans Souci lies on a hill, and sweeping views of vineyards and the gardens pan out in all directions. They are very beautiful: so is the house, but as with so many of the great buildings I have seen in Russia, I bite my lip to avoid remarking to Gaudi how closely it resembles the model of Versailles. A minor copy of its magnificence, in point of fact.